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ROMANCES OF EARLY 
AMERICA 



K' I 



COPYRIGHT 1902 BY 
GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO. 
PUBLISHED JULY, 1902 



THt LIBRARY OF 

CONGRESS, 
fv/o ComuB RtcsivED 

'^tr, k 1302 

Co»»yTOOHT ENT(rv 
CCASsO^XXa No. 

bozos' 

COPY B. 



^-3/ 



?i 



PREFACE 



IT was once said of Americans, in terms of reproach, 
that they had no past. But they were only in the 
position of the lad who, when twitted about his 
youth, answered that he would outgrow the fault, "if 
given a little time." America is fast outgrowing this 
fault of extreme youth. The country already has a past 
of which it may be proud, and one that is full of pictur- 
esqueness. The more it is written about the more inter- 
esting it seems, and the greater is the wonder that the 
New World offers so much pleasant romance to the 
reader. The age in which we live may be prosaic, and 
marked by the worship of Mammon, yet the public never 
showed a livelier appreciation than it does now of the 
dead-and-gone heroes and heroines who lived and loved, 
lost or won, in the early days of our history. I trust, 
therefore, that a place in the bookcase may be found for 
these " Romances of Early America." The characters of 
whom they treat faded into shadows many years ago, 
but the theme of the volume — "the old, old story" — is 
ever new, and worth the telling. 
In addition to such original researches as I have made, it 



PREFACE 



has been my welcome duty to consult a variety of books 
bearing, either directly or incidentally, upon the subjects 
of the "Romances." This literature included Watson's 
chatty Annals, Brown's Beneath Old Roof Trees, Glenn's 
Colonial Mansions, Mrs. Van Rensselaer's Goede Vrouw 
of Mana-ha-ta, the Memorial History of New York, 
^ Mrs. Banning's biography of Miss Vining, a Revolution- 
ary Belle, Mrs. EUet's Women of the American Revolu- 
tion, Alger's Life of Edwin Forrest, Elias Nason's Life 
of Sir Charles Henry Franhland, Paul Leicester Ford's 
The True George Washington, Jenkins's Historical Col- 
lections Relating to Gwynedd, the Pennsylvania Magaiine, 
edited by John W. Jordan, Maud Wilder Goodwin's 
Life of Dolly Madison, the American Historical Regis- 
ter, and Miss Wharton's Colonial Days and Dames. 

In the preparation of the following pages 1 have passed 
many an agreeable hour. I have not written in vain if a 
small part of my own enjoyment is shared by the reader. 

Edward Robins. 

Philadelphia, 
June /, igo2. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

I. THE MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE-MAK- 
ING: A STORY OF OLD PHILA- 
DELPHIA - - - - - II 

II. PEASANT AND PATRICIAN: IN COLO- 
NIAL BOSTON - - - - 35 

HI. WAR AND FLIRTATION : MISS WISTER 

AT PENLLYN _ . . . 55 

IV. A BELLE OF DELAWARE : MISS VINING, 

OF WILMINGTON AND DOVER - 85 

V. A DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE : LEG- 

ENDS FROM VIRGINIA - - loi 

VI. CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID: NEW 

YORK AND HER ROYAL GOV- 
ERNORS - - - - - 119 

VII. BORN TO BE A REBEL: A PRETTY 

BOSTONIAN - - - - 147 

7 



CONTENTS 



VIII. EDWIN FORREST'S FIRST LOVE : NEW 

ORLEANS IN THE "TWENTIES" - 163 

IX. AN UNCOMPROMISING TORY : NORTH 

CAROLINA AND LOYALISM - 185 

X. THE GHOSTS OF GRAEME PARK : A 

PENNSYLVANIA ROMANCE - - 201 

XI. WASHINGTON AS A WOOER : SWEET- 
HEARTS IN VIRGINIA AND NEW 
YORK ------ 219 

XII. A QUAKER TRANSFORMED : THE LEAD- 
ER OF WASHINGTON SOCIETY 239 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



MRS. BENEDICT ARNOLD (PEGGY SHIPPEN) 
AND CHILD, FROM THE PORTRAIT BY SIR 
THOMAS LAWRENCE IN THE COLLECTION 
OF THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY OF PENN- 
SYLVANIA ----- Frontispiece 

THE FRANKLAND MANSION, BOSTON, RESI- 
DENCE OF SIR CHARLES HENRY AND 
LADY FRANKLAND, REDRAWN FROM AN 
OLD PRINT - - - - Facing page 36 

SIR CHARLES HENRY FRANKLAND, FROM AN 
ETCHING IN THE POSSESSION OF THE 
BOSTONIAN SOCIETY - - Facing page 50 

THE FOULKE HOUSE AT PENLLYN, FROM AN 
ETCHING BY BLANCHE DILLAYE MADE 
FOR "HISTORICAL COLLECTIONS RELA- 
TING TO GWYNEDD," BY HOWARD M. 
JENKINS - _ - - Facing page 56 

MISS SALLY WISTER, FROM A SILHOUETTE 
PORTRAIT IN THE POSSESSION OF MR. 
CHARLES J. WISTER OF GERMAN- 
TOWN ----- Facing page 68 

9 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



GENERAL ANTHONY WAYNE, FROM A PAINT- 
ING AFTER THE PORTRAIT BY COLONEL 
TRUMBULL, IN THE TRUMBULL GALLERY 
AT NEW HAVEN - - - Facing page 86 

THOMAS JEFFERSON AS A YOUNG MAN, FROM 
AN OLD ENGRAVING - - Facing page 102 

THE WHITE HALL, NEW YORK, OFFICIAL RESI- 
DENCE OF THE COLONIAL GOVERNORS 
OF THE PROVINCE OF NEW YORK, RE- 
DRAWN FROM AN OLD PRINT, Facing page 120 

A CORNER OF BOSTON IN REVOLUTIONARY 
DAYS, FROM AN OLD PRINT - Facing page 148 

EDWIN FORREST AT THE AGE OF TWENTY- 
ONE, FROM ONE OF THE EARLIEST POR- 
TRAITS OF THE ACTOR - - Facing page 164 

FLORA MacDONALD IN HIGHLAND DRESS, 
FROM AN OLD ENGRAVING - Facing page 184 

GRAEME PARK, THE RESIDENCE OF SIR 
WILLIAM KEITH, FROM A PAINTING BY 
I. L WILLIAMS IN THE COLLECTION OF 
THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY OF PENNSYL- 
VANIA ----- Facing page 202 

MISS MARY PHILIPSE (SISTER OF MRS. BEVER- 
LEY ROBINSON, OF NEW YORK), FROM 
AN OLD ENGRAVING - - Facing page 220 

MRS. JAMES MADISON (DOLLY PAYNE), FROM 
A PAINTING BY GILBERT STUART IN THE 
POSSESSION OF RICHARD CUTTS, M. D., 
WASHINGTON - - - Facing page 240 

10 



THE 


MESCHIANZA 


AND 


LOVE-MAKING 



THE MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE-MAKING 

IT is a bright day of May, in the year of grace 1778, 
and in the year of American independence 2. Yet 
no one who is abroad this sunny morning in the 
tree-lined streets of Philadelphia sees much sign of an 
independence which defies the power of Great Britain, 
the former mistress and mother of all the thirteen colo- 
nies. For the sober town, once the stronghold of the 
drab-coated Quaker, is filled with gayly-dressed English 
officers, resplendent in red cloth and gold lace, while 
burly privates and lusty sailors, all wearing the uniforms 
of His Majesty, King George, strut proudly here and 
there, as they hail some passing tradesman or turn an 
admiring glance upon a demure maiden who watches 
them from the vantage of her father's door-step. Surely 
there are no indications in this display of royal power 
that America is free to govern herself. 

Every one in Philadelphia knows, indeed, that Wash- 
ington and his half-starved, half-naked troops have been 
having a sorry winter of it twenty miles away at Valley 
Forge, while General Sir William Howe and his own 
men have enjoyed life safely and comfortably housed 

13 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

in the Quaker City. The truth is that Sir William has 
enjoyed life so well, and taken military matters so 
placidly, that he has not yet conquered America. So his 
resignation has been accepted by the disappointed Britisli 
government, and he is succeeded in command by Sir 
Henry Clinton. 

But what mean all the commotion, the glitter of gold 
lace, the flashing of swords, the hurrying to and fro of 
sailors and the excitement of the people of the city? 
What means the bustle that prevails in the staunch brick 
houses in the fashionable part of town, where the young 
women of the first Tory families are indulging in those 
wonderful mysteries of the toilet.? Such a lacing of 
bodices, mingled with the occasional snap of a stay, and 
a cry of feminine despair! What a smoothing of gowns 
and an arranging of headdresses, as fond mammas work 
like slaves to get Miss Peggy or Miss Lavinia into "gen- 
teel" condition, while younger sisters of the beauties 
look on enviously. Dinah, the black cook, comes up- 
stairs and holds up her ebony hands in mute admiration, 
as she surveys the results of a month's millinery devising; 
or perhaps dear papa drops in from his counting-room, 
feels proud of his daughters, and wonders, poor man, 
how much all this finery will cost him. 

If we visit the Richard Penn mansion where Sir William 
Howe has his headquarters, on the south side of Market 
Street below Sixth, we find that tall, florid, good-natured 
gentleman arraying himself in the full uniform of a Brit- 

14 



MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE - MAKING 

ish general. It is proper that he should so array himself, 
for he is the cause of all the stir in the streets and of all 
the dressing in the houses of the "quality." As a part- 
ing compliment, ere he returns to England in the role of 
a hero ? his officers are to give him a great entertainment 
which is to go down to history as the Meschianza, or 
medley. This is why the hearts of the Philadelphia 
maidens are in such a tlutter. 

Several of those hearts may secretly beat true for the 
American cause. Perhaps their possessors, if they were 
quite logical and consistent, would refuse to take part in 
the Meschianza. But one should not ask too much of 
human nature, or of that part of it which loves the color 
of a military coat, be its wearer friend or enemy. " The 
British officers have been so polite, my dear." How 
can any Tory's daughter who is less than superhuman 
resist the allurements of the coming program, or the en- 
treaties of the aforesaid officers ? And then, that dashing 
John Andre, who writes such delightful poetry at a mo- 
ment's notice, and who paints so divinely, is to be there! 
Andre! Whenever his name is mentioned even the patri- 
otic Philadelphia girls of Whig families forget, for the 
nonce, that a Continental soldier ever existed. They 
cannot help themselves, poor things. To them Captain 
Andre typifies all the masculine graces. Nor is he the 
less interesting because it is whispered that he is in love 
with the attractive Miss Peggy Chew. They must be a 
trifle envious of their Tory friends who have accepted 

15 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

invitations to attend the Meschianza, and who flaunt be- 
fore them the cards or tickets which have been sent for 
the entertainment. These are impressive pasteboards on 
which are engraved cannon, flags, a view of the ocean, 
with the setting sun, the legend " l^ive, Vale,'^ and a fine 
Latin motto: " Luceo discedens aucto splendore resur- 
gam." Only a few, yea, a very few, of the fair recipi- 
ents comprehend the motto, but all of them vow that it 
must be something sublime. Unlike the Whigs, they 
have no qualms about taking part in the coming fete. 
They only hope that the charming British will never leave 
Philadelphia, nor yield the town to the beggarly, bare- 
footed Continentals. For let it not be forgotten that 
among the good people of the place there are some, more 
particularly those who nourish pretensions to aristocracy, 
who look upon the Revolution as hopelessly foolish, 
criminal, and — far worse — distinctly vulgar. They are 
sorry, indeed, that so gentlemanly a Virginian as Mr. 
George Washington should have seen fit to take com- 
mand of a rabble. How much better would he appear 
in a British uniform! 

Morning changes into afternoon. The tov/nspeople, 
ranging in rank from baker's boy to pompous merchant, 
hasten towards Knight's wharf, on the river Delaware, at 
the northern end of the town.' Moored out in the broad 
river are all sorts of curious craft, manned by the sailors 
from the British men-of-war, who are evidently prepar- 

1 Knight's wharf was at the end of Green Street. 
16 



MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE - MAKING 

ing to receive distinguished visitors. Some of the more 
adventurous of the Philadelphians clamber into row- 
boats and push out into the stream, while the rest line 
the bank. Bees swarming around a hive could not show 
more animation. 

It is now four o'clock. The warm May sun, which 
has crawled over to the Philadelphia side of the Delaware, 
is shining down on the many notables who have boarded 
the craft in the river. There is a group of British officers, 
laughing as merrily as if they were celebrating some 
triumph over the Americans, and here is a bevy of 
beauties from the town. The latter look pretty enough 
to justify the boast, to be made in later days, that Phila- 
delphia women are the loveliest in the world. All the 
lacing and powdering and adornment have had a 
dazzling effect. There is no thought, for the moment, 
of tired, worried Washington. Gaiety reigns , supreme. 
Englishmen are bending amorously over the witty Jewess, 
Rebecca Franks, and over Miss Chew, Miss Jane Craig, 
the Misses Bond, and the rest. 

There is to be a regatta as a preliminary to the /^/^. 
The fleet consists of three divisions. In the van is a 
galley bearing some of the officers and ladies. Then 
comes another galley, carrying on its deck Sir William 
Howe, Admiral Lord Howe, Sir Henry Clinton, the new 
commander-in-chief, their suites, and more fair women. 
Another galley, with no less precious freight, brings up 
the rear. Hovering near the galleys are five flat boats 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

lined with green cloth, which forms a striking back- 
ground to the gorgeous clothes, both gowns and uni- 
forms, of the occupants. Six barges make a sort of 
cordon around these vessels, to keep off the recruits from 
the vulgar herd, who are paddling about in their little row- 
boats to catch a glimpse of so much aristocracy. In 
front of the whole line are three batteaux filled with 
musicians who play the airs of old England. All the 
boats of the fleet are decorated with bunting, as are like- 
wise the ships which are anchored in the river along the 
whole water-front of the town. At the end of High and 
other streets, all along the river, the wharves are crowded 
with spectators, some of whom look on sympathetically, 
whilst others mutter smothered curses at the sight of 
so many red-coats fraternizing with the daughters of 
Americans. 

It is half-past four o'clock, or a little later. The gal- 
leys, the barges, and the other boats move slowly down 
the river to the accompaniment of the music. When 
opposite High Street (now Market Street) wharf the many 
oarsmen rest. The musicians play "God Save the 
King," and the men on the ships at anchor burst forth 
into three cheers, it is a brilliant spectacle. Who in 
all this crowd surmises that in after years this same old 
tune of " God Save the King" will be played in the town 
to the words of "America!" Then, when "God Save 
the King" is finished, the fleet moves down the river 

until it reaches the Old Fort fronting the Wharton estate, 

IS 



MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE - MAKING 

near what will, in later times, be called Washington 
Avenue wharf. No thought of Washington now unless 
it be as of one who may some day be hung as a traitor to 
His Most Gracious Majesty, George III. 

Here a landing is made, amid much laughter on the 
part of the ladies, who are afraid of wetting their daintily 
slippered feet; but gallant assistance from the officers 
prevents such a catastrophe. H. M. S. Roebuck tires 
a salute of seventeen guns; after the roar has died away 
there comes a greeting from the cannon of another war- 
ship. The party of merrymakers, now safe on land, 
advance bravely up to a magnificent lawn through an 
avenue formed by towering grenadiers and light-horse- 
men. Before them march the musicians and the 
"managers" of the Meschianza, the latter wearing 
proudly upon their coats badges of white and blue 
ribbons. The guests find the lawn edged with troops. 
For the ladies are rows of benches from which they can 
watch the tournament that is about to be given in their 
honor. The Knights of the Blended Rose, representing the 
cause of seven belles, are about to wage war to the death 
with the Knights of the Burning Mountain, who will as- 
sert the superior beauty and accomplishments of seven 
other maidens. The ladies thus honored sit in the front 
benches, wearing (let us hope becomingly) Turkish 
costumes, capped by turbans in which the favors of their 
respective champions are pinned conspicuously. 

There is a wild blare of trumpets in the distance. The 

19 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

next instant the Knights of the Blended Rose, headed by 
the debonair Lord Calhcart (who has for his protegee 
Miss Auchmuty, an English girl), come prancing into the 
lists mounted on gray horses gorgeously caparisoned. 
The cavaliers are attended by a band of squires, heralds 
and trumpeters, and are dressed in wonderful garments 
of red and white silk. One squire holds Lord Cathcart's 
lance; another carries his shield; two negroes, grinning 
beatifically in habits of white and blue, with silver 
clasps upon their shining black necks and arms, hold the 
champion's stirrups. It is a scene worthy of a mediaeval 
romance. Can it be equaled by any London pageant ? 

There is much reining-in of the gray horses, and 
round after round of applause from the spectators. 
Then, after more blare of trumpets, a herald steps for- 
ward into the arena and throws down the gage of battle. 
Three times does he cry that the ladies championed by 
the Knights of the Blended Rose are fairer, wittier, and 
more accomplished than the ladies of any other knights. 
There is a pause. The young women in the Turkish 
costumes try to look graceful; the others flirt their fans 
to and fro and await developments. 

Now there is a fresh flourish of trumpets, as the 
Knights of the Burning Mountain, dressed in black and 
orange, come riding into the lists. Their herald defies 
the challengers, throws down the gauntlet, and loudly 
sets forth the superiority of the ladies who are under the 
protection of his masters. Captain Watson, the chieftain 

20 



MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE - MAKING 

of these brave knights, has for his lady Miss Rebecca 
Franks. He flaunts upon his shield a heart; his motto, 
worthy of some Cceur de Leon, is "Love and Glory." 
The spectators hold their breath. They almost fancy 
that the gentlemen of the Blended Rose and the gentle- 
men of the Burning Mountain are about to fight one an- 
other to the death. What a delightful tragedy! 

Suddenly there is the crash of battle. Look! The two 
bands of knights rush madly at each other. Such a clat- 
tering of hoofs, neighing of horses, and clashing of 
shields and lances! Such a tilting, and jousting, and par- 
rying; such an apparent fierceness on the part of the 
combatants, yet such a skilful avoidance of real danger! 
It resembles some theatrical spectacle where the contend- 
ing armies do their work with careful zest. The ladies, 
particularly the pretty Turks, are enchanted. They seem 
to be back in the times of the Chevalier Bayard. Quaker 
Philadelphia has vanished. 

There are four savage encounters, ending with much 
shedding — not of blood, but rather of helmets, and rib- 
bons, and ornaments. Then comes the piece de resist- 
ance. Captain Watson and Lord Cathcart, spurring on 
their horses, rush at each other unattended. There is a 
collision ! The ladies clasp their hands in excitement. 
Are the two chiefs wounded.? Awful thought! No. 
They have each drawn back, after the first shock, and 
are at it again with their golden lances. At last, when 
they look weary and dusty, the marshal of the field 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

rushes between them, "Hold! " he cries. "The ladies of 
the Blended Rose and the ladies of the Burning Mountain 
are well pleased with the proofs of valor and loyalty 
which their respective knights have given so nobly, and 
now, fully satisfied therewith, they command their 
knights to desist from further combat! " 

So the brave knights, thus passionately adjured, stop 
the fight, bow low to the audience, and ride out of the 
lists. The tournament is over; but the fete has hardly 
begun. The dancing, the innocent love-making, the 
vows of officers who protest all sorts of nonsense, and 
the half-pleased, half-angry remonstrances of their part- 
ners, are yet to come. 

It is evening. The company are assembled in the ball- 
room of a building on the Wharton property. " How 
beautiful! " exclaim the women, as they are ushered in; 
" what taste Captain Andre has, forsooth!" They speak 
truly. The Captain is a clever painter and designer. 
The room has been decorated in pale blue, paneled with 
gold, with festoons of flowers; a dazzling array of 
mirrors reflect the loveliness of Philadelphia in the light 
of myriads of wax candles. The music begins. The 
Knights of the Blended Rose and the Knights of the 
Burning Mountain tread a minuet with their proUgees. 
Then the dancing becomes general. At ten o'clock the 
windows are suddenly thrown open. A great bouquet 
of rockets is lighting up the darkness, and the sparks, de- 
scending like so many fireflies, fall into the placid ripples 

82 



MESCHIANZ A — AND LOVE - MAKING 

of the Delaware. ' ' The Chinese fireworks have begun ! " 
cry the guests. There is a sudden rush to see the dis- 
play, with many expressions of admiration which cease 
not until the last rocket has sputtered out its brief, golden 
life. 

The supper follows the display of fireworks. In a 
large room, elaborately decorated for the occasion with 
mirrors and candelabra, are tables laden with every- 
thing that the Philadelphia markets can supply; not to 
mention the wine which the well-fed British hosts have 
brought from abroad for solace and consolation. What a 
clatter of knives and forks now ensues; what popping of 
corks and laughter; what tender looks are cast upon the 
fair ones! How amiable and florid grow the officers, as 
some of them predict, in their over-confident, British way, 
that "this beastly war will soon be over," or that "the 
wretched, ragged rebels will shortly be humbled." 

Towards the end of the meal there is a stir. "Make 
way! Make way ! " cry several voices. At this the her- 
ald and trumpeters of the Blended Rose enter the room 
and proclaim the " health of His Most Gracious Majesty, 
King George, and of the members of the Royal Family," 
At once chairs are pushed back, the merrymakers rise to 
their feet, and many a glass is drained in honor of that 
very obstinate gentleman who is trying to crush out 
American independence. 

What ? Can it be that Miss is raising her glass, 

and drinking to the royal toast? Yes; there can be no 

23 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

mistake. But let us not be uncharitable enough to ex- 
pose the pretty traitor. In a short time, when the Conti- 
nental army is once more in possession of Philadelphia, 
she will be only too anxious to forget that she responded 
to such a bumper. After the toast to Royalty come the 
healths of the ladies. Then the party, radiant with pleas- 
ure, return to the ballroom, where Sir William Howe, 
looking as jolly as if he were going back to England as a 
triumphant Caesar or a conquering Hannibal, is not above 
joining heavily in the dancing. During an interval in the 
figures the band plays ''Britons, Strike Home!" Had 
the general a keen imagination, which he has not, he 
might construe the words, " Britons, Go Home! " 

Who is the pretty young girl who tearfully leans out of 
her window on this eventful evening, as she sees the fire- 
works from afar, and rails at the unkind fate which has 
prevented her from going to the Meschianza ? It is Miss 
Peggy Shippen, a daughter of Edward Shippen, one of the 
best known citizens of Philadelphia. Near her are her two 
sisters, Miss Sarah and Miss Molly. They, too, are full 
of woe. Miss Peggy, who is the leading belle of the 
town, although hardly eighteen years old, was to have 
had a champion at the tilting, who expected to bear the 
device of a bay leaf, with "Unchangeable" for his 
motto. She cannot see the irony of that motto, as ap- 
plied to herself. She cannot look into the future, to find 
that she will marry a man who is to prove anything but 
"unchangeable" to his country. Nor can she look into 

24 



MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE - MAKING 

her horoscope to detect therein the form of Benedict 
Arnold. Now, however, the young lady and her sisters 
are not troubling themselves about the future; they are 
only thinking of the present, with the dancing at the 
Wharton place, the flirtations, the drinking of toasts, and 
the merrymaking. All three were to have been there, 
but at the last minute their cruel papa forbade them to 
attend. Was there ever such an outrage in all the prov- 
inces ? The Misses Shippen feel that for them there is no 
more pleasure in life, as they picture the good times that 
Becky Franks, Peggy Chew, Nancy White, Becky Bond 
and all their friends are having, with the red-coated offi- 
cers bending over them and plying them with the com- 
pliments so grateful to the feminine soul! The very 
thought of it is maddening! ^ 

Mr. Shippen cannot be accused of being partial to the 
Revolutionary cause, but he has decided, at the last mo- 
ment, that his daughters must stay at home. Several of 
his friends, prominent Quakers, have visited him on the 
very day of the fete, and have convinced him that it 
would not be "seemly" for his daughters to appear in 
the " highly indelicate " Turkish dresses designed for the 
occasion. Perhaps papa has inspected the costumes, but, 

* Although the names of the Misses Shippen often appear in the list of 
guests at the Meschianza, it has been proved that the young ladies were 
not present. The tradition in the Shippen family shows that their father 
was the culprit who put an end, as narrated above, to all their brilliant 
anticipations. 

25 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

be that as it may, he has issued his horrible command. 
No Meschianza for Peggy, or Sally, or Molly 1 How they 
storm at those meddlesome Quakers. How beautiful 
look the Turkish dresses that they must not wear — more 
beautiful now than before, like so much forbidden fruit. 
Well, well! This is what comes of having neighbors 
who do not attend strictly to their own affairs. 

But to return to the entertainment. There is a lady in 
the ballroom to whom Captain Watson is paying assidu- 
ous court. She has dark eyes and hair, with a frank, 
almost audacious expression, and a mouth that denotes, 
by a downward curve, a keen sense of humor. She is 
Rebecca Franks, one of the daughters of David Franks, 
a Jewish merchant. She has a merry wit, which she 
never hesitates to use against friends or enemies. In 
spite of her almost masculine mind she is by no means 
impervious to British flattery, and she is an avowed Loy- 
alist, or upholder of King George. After the British have 
left Philadelphia a characteristic story will be related about 
Miss Franks. Colonel Jack Steward, an American officer, 
calls upon her, dressed in a suit of red. " I have adopted 
your colors, my princess," he says, with a bow, "the 
better to secure a courteous reception. Deign to smile on 
a true knight." Rebecca flushes angrily at the speech, 
which politely implies that only an English uniform can 
win her heart. But she is quick to retort: " How the ass 
glories in the lion's skin! " 

We may be sure that Miss Franks is saying something 

26 



MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE - MAKING 

brilliant to Captain Watson. Near the two is a iiandsome 
fellow of aristocratic bearing and fine physique, with a 
face in which resolution and a certain artistic feeling are 
attractively blended. The British officers are, for the 
most part, obstinate and unsympathetic of face, without 
much indication of brain. They are men who do not 
seem able to get beyond the standard of a horse-race or a 
wine-drinking bout. But here is an officer whose eyes 
beam forth feeling, taste, even genius. You put him 
down at once, although you do not know him, as a 
graceful dilettante who has an eye for the fine arts, and 
knows something more than the average narrow-minded 
soldier. You are correct in this estimate of character. 
The gentleman is Captain John Andre. He has a pretty 
talent for drawing, he can pen dainty verses to the eye- 
brows of Philadelphia maidens, and he understands how 
to act in amateur theatricals with the ease, although 
hardly with the power, of a David Garrick or a Spranger 
Barry. Has he not, also, painted scenery for the theatre 
on Cedar (South) Street, where he and his brother of- 
ficers have acted for the edification of their feminine 
adorers ? Furthermore, he is a brave man who will not 
hesitate at any sacrifice for his country. No wonder 
that Andre is a beau chevalier, or that nearly all the girls 
in the Quaker City, patriots and loyalists alike, have had 
their heads turned by his grace, his brilliancy of conver- 
sation, and his half-courtly, half-easy manners. 
This hero, who has had so much to do with making 

27 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

the Meschianza a success, is looking into the high-bred, 
winsome face of Miss Peggy Chew. All Philadelphia 
has heard of Miss Chew, the daughter of Chief Justice 
Benjamin Chew, of "Cliveden," m Germantown. She 
has been one of the most admired young women at this 
evening's entertainment, and many a companion has 
envied her, in having for her knight in the tournament 
none other than Andre himself. "No Rival" was his 
motto, a most fitting and appropriate one. Nay, more 
than that, is it not whispered, with bated breath, that 
she is engaged to marry this British officer ? He has had 
an unfortunate love affair over in England, where a cer- 
tain lady has not smiled on his suit, but he seems to have 
recovered from this heart-wound, and is gazing at Miss 
Peggy as if America, not the mother country, claimed 
his knightly allegiance. One thing, say the gossips, is 
quite certain. The captain has written some beautiful 
verses after having seen her charming face framed by a 
spray of apple blossoms. The poetry is every whit as 
pretty, they add, as the lines he dedicated to one of the 
Misses Redman, another local belle, which began: 

" Return, enraptured hours. 

When Delia's heart was mine : 

When she with wreaths of flowers 

My temples would entwine." 

"How romantic," sigh the gossips, who wish that 
some Andre would write verses in their honor. 
Thus passes the Meschianza, as night gives place to 

28 



MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE - MAKING 

early morning. In the ballroom the dancing and the 
music continue; on the lawn, in front of the Wharton 
house, several couples, weary of the heat and noise 
within, are walking under the dim light of Chinese 
lanterns, enjoying the light breeze from the Delaware, 
and whispering all sorts of pretty nonsense. Among 
the strollers are Andre and Miss Chew. Out on the 
river the signal lights of the war-ships shine steadily. It 
is just the setting for a performance of Romeo and Juliet, 
with Andre, who can act so well, as Montague. No one 
could ask for a fairer background for the play. 

Morning has come. The sun is struggling up from the 
Jersey horizon, and will soon be shimmering down upon 
the Delaware. The Meschianza is a thing of the past: it 
has gone into history, and will give the feminine par- 
ticipants something to talk about until they are become 
grandmothers, and even great-grandmothers. The 
Misses Chew, Miss Auchmuty, the sharp tongued Miss 
Franks, the Misses Redman, the Misses Bond and all the 
other beauties are sleeping the sleep of worn-out dancers; 
while many of the gentlemen of the King's Army are 
toasting them at the coffee-house. These officers, see- 
ing that the time for sleep is passing short, have resolved, 
with due heroism, to keep up the festivities until duty 
calls them to barracks or parade-ground. The grounds 
of the Wharton place look as if they had been struck by a 
whirlwind. The lanterns, the triumphal arches, the 
decorations, seem forlorn, lonely, even ghastly. 

29 



ROiMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

Let us move on, more than two years after the British 
have evacuated Philadelphia, until we reach Tappan, 
New York, on an October day in 1780. In an open field 
is a baggage-wagon, surrounded by a guard of Conti- 
nental troops. Around the guard stand other soldiers, 
with sad faces and moistened eyes. The wagon is drawn 
up directly under a tree-branch from which hangs an 
ominous looking rope. From the midst of the soldiers a 
handsome young man appears, and jumping nimbly upon 
the wagon, he snatches one end of the rope from the 
hands of the hangman, opens his shirt-collar, and adjusts 
the noose about his neck. After all is ready for the 
gruesome ceremony, the victim lifts the bandage from 
his eyes. "Gentlemen," he says, in a clear, calm voice, 
addressing the half-weeping officers who are near the 
wagon, "I request that you will bear witness to the 
world that I died like a brave man! " A minute or two 
later he is beyond the reach of any earthly tribunal. 
"It will be but a momentary pang!" are his last 
words. 

The dead body which is cut down from the tree is that 
of the unfortunate John Andre. Although he has de- 
served his death as a spy, because of his plotting with 
Benedict Arnold under the shadow of an American 
stronghold, yet the very enemies whom he has sought 
to betray are grieved that so plucky a soldier must die 
by the gibbet. Yonder, over at the house occupied 

by General Washington, the blinds have been pulled 

30 



MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE - MAKING 

down. The General is as sorry as any one else, but he 
has no right to grant a reprieve. 

Poor Peggy Chew! There are tragic moments — tears 
and cries — awaiting you when you learn the fate of 
Andre! Treasure up his verses, and recall all that he has 
said to you, for nothing but a memory is left of your old 
romance. 

Nearly seven years more elapse. The worthy people 
of Germantown ask themselves if Miss Peggy intends to 
become an old maid. At last she solves the riddle by 
marrying General Howard, the hero of the Cowpens — as 
staunch a patriot as ever faced cannon. The wedding 
takes place at the Chews' city mansion in Third Street, 
Philadelphia. General Washington is there, dignified 
and stately, and makes no reference, naturally enough, 
to the dead Andre. In after years Mistress Howard will 
often speak to her husband of the many virtues and 
fascinations of her old admirer. It will not be very tact- 
ful on the lady's part, although such vanity is pardonable, 
under the circumstances. Out in Germantown it will be 
asserted, that there was an actual engagement of 
marriage between Miss Chew and Andr6. 

But General Howard will have no patience for this sort 

of reminiscence. "He was only a spy!" he 

will cry, brusquely; "nothing but a spy!" Can 

we blame the husband ? Old-time flames are not 
always agreeable to hear of, unless we have basked in their 
warming light. To Howard Andre was a mere criminal. 

31 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

What becomes of Miss Peggy Shippen, who was 
so cruelly prevented from attending the Meschianza ? 
Let us change the scene to London, in Westminster 
Abbey, towards the close of the eighteenth century. An 
American is viewing the monuments in this wonderful 
old church. Among them is the new cenotaph erected, 
by command of King George, to the memory of Andre. 
As the visitor reads the inscription on it an elderly man, 
and a woman of under forty, approach the cenotaph. 
The man has a soured, disappointed expression on his 
coarse features, although he betrays the air of an 
aggressive, quarrelsome fellow who perpetually carries a 
chip upon his shoulder. The woman has been beautiful 
once upon a time — one glance at her face shows that — 
but now she is old before she should be, wan, tired, 
apathetic. She looks like one who expects no more 
gifts from Fortune; she is resigned to a life of dreariness. 
The American starts as he recognizes the pair, and then 
turns away in a sort of horror. For the man with the 
soured expression is none other than Benedict Arnold. 
The lady is his wife, the once fascinating Peggy Shippen 
of Philadelphia. Arnold has been inconstant, and a 
traitor, but she, at least, has justified the motto of " Un- 
changeable " which her knight was to have worn for her 
in the pageant on the banks of the Delaware. She has 
never faltered in her devotion to her husband. What a 
change from those happy Philadelphia days! There is 
no pleasure for her, poor woman, in recalling them, 

32 



MESCHIANZA — AND LOVE - MAKING 

for their contrast with the present only brings sadness. 
Does she ever picture the fateful hour when Washington, 
more sorrowful than angry, saw her in her room at 
West Point, after the discovery of her husband's treason ? 
She cannot forget how, in her madness of despair, she 
raved and accused the commander-in-chief of being in a 
plot to murder her infant child. No; she forgets 
nothing; but, whatever be her memories, she will be 
faithful to a faithless soldier until the end. 

There is another and more cheerful scene in England 
which serves as one of the sequels to the Meschianza. 
It is at Bath, that little world of fashion, in the year 1810 
or thereabouts. At the table of a luxuriously furnished 
dining-room sit a gray-haired military-looking gentle- 
man, a young man (an American), and a stout, elderly 
lady with fine black eyes and an air of almost youthful 
animation. The lady, who is evidently the hostess, 
seems to be a person of wealth and consequence. Looks 
do not belie her, for she is the gifted and prosperous 
wife of Sir Henry Johnson, a distinguished officer of the 
British Army, who is sitting opposite to her at the table. 
She is asking her visitor, the American, all manner of 
lively questions about people in Philadelphia. "How 
are the Chews?" "And the Willings?" "Is old Mr. 
Pemberton still alive ? " " And what has become of Mrs. 
Bache, the daughter of Dr. Franklin ? " There is some- 
thing familiar about the flash of those eyes, and the al- 
most sarcastic smile that hovers around the mouth. The 

33 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

figure is plumper than of yore, but — yes, there can 
be no doubt of it. Lady Johnson is our old friend, 
Rebecca Franks, grown matronly, and very English. She 
will always have a tender feeling for America, however, 
and will take pleasure, during the War of 1812, in the 
victories of her former countrymen. "I am sorry I was 
a Tory during the Revolution," she will say. Yet she is 
very proud of a son who has a commission in the British 
Army, and who is destined to be killed at the battle of 
Waterloo. 

Thus marry and grow old most of the maidens who 
have graced the Meschianza. Some, like Mistress Ar- 
nold, find life dull tragedy ; others turn it into comedy, 
and keep on smiling until Death tries the latch-string of 
the door. All vestige of \.\\q fete has long since vanished. 
Upon the ground where stood the Wharton mansion, in 
the vicinity of Fifth Street and Washington Avenue, the 
city has relentlessly encroached. The once spacious 
lawn is traversed by built-up thoroughfares. All the 
beauty which reigned there that night has vanished as a 
dream, and the Meschianza is but a memory of the past. 



34 



PEASANT AND PATRICIAN 





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II 

PEASANT AND PATRICIAN 

TO the average reader it may seem incompre- 
hensible that there should have been anything 
of romance or pleasure, of the Old World 
type, in the domestic history of colonial Boston. We are 
too prone to look upon this Boston of earlier days as a 
place filled with stern Puritans v^ho had no passions or 
human feeling. The town, so we think, must have been 
as stiff as a newly starched ruff. There all the lights 
were extinguished at a certain time; there the people 
walked in one narrow path; there even love-making was 
conducted on severe, forbidding principles. Yet if we 
glance into the by-ways rather than into the highways of 
Boston life we find more than one bit of history which 
tells us that human nature had her sway even in that 
stronghold of Puritanism, and that there, as well as in 
more southern latitudes, the coming of spring sometimes 
made a "young man's fancy " lightly turn to thoughts of 
love. Let us take, for example, the novel-like yet true 
story of Sir Charles Henry Frankland, Baronet, and Agnes 
Surriage, the humble but lovely maid-of-all-work in a 
Massachusetts inn. There is in the mere truthful 

37 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

details of their devotion, with its crowning episode of 
matrimony, enough material for twenty works of fiction. 

When Charles Henry Frankland, a young man of 
twenty-four or twenty-five, a lineal descendant of the 
redoubtable Oliver Cromwell, (and later to inherit a 
baronetcy) came over from England in 1741, to accept 
the lucrative position of Collector of the Port of Boston, 
he became at once a shining light in the aristocratic circle 
composed of such families as the Hutchinsons, Apthorps, 
and Bollans, who represented the influence of the Eng- 
lish government in the Colony of Massachusetts Bay. 
These patricians, who kept quite apart, as a rule, from 
the hardy settlers who gave such a democratic tinge to 
the budding life and prosperity of New England, sought 
their inspiration from the fashionable air of London 
rather than from the stern, frugal manners of the com- 
mon people of the colony. With this official world, as a 
biographer of Frankland has so well pointed out,^ the 
chief question of the day was: " How is such and such 
a thing done at Court ?" They preserved the dress and 
customs of their relatives beyond the sea, affected a 
knowledge of literature, by reading the Spectator and the 
works of Jonathan Swift, and drove about in their hand- 
some imported coaches, while the ancestors of certain 
citizens of the town who now rank as aristocrats glanced 
out upon them deferentially from neighboring shops. 

It may be imagined how warmly Frankland was wel- 

1 Elias Nason. 
38 



PEASANT AND PATRICIAN 

corned by this high-born coterie. Rich, good-looking, 
debonair, with a taste for the arts and amenities of life, 
and with manners as elegant as those of the famous Lord 
Chesterfield, he quickly won his way into their hearts. 
Fathers were glad to claim intimacy with him; fond 
mammas rejoiced that he was a bachelor; daughters re- 
garded him with a pretty display of maidenly bashful- 
ness. The latter declared that his face was entrancingly 
pensive, even melancholy, and that he was positively de- 
lightful when he arrayed himself in a golden-laced coat, 
flowered vest, ruffled sleeves and silken breeches, with a 
three-cornered hat, powdered wig, and a sword to set 
off the full effect of the costume. Their brothers, who 
longed to be men about town, like the dandies who 
paraded through the "Mall" in London, vowed that 
Frankland could drink his wine as briskly as any subject 
in the Kingdom, and yet never feel the least harm from 
his potations. Little did they know that he used for a 
drinking-cup a vessel so thickly lined inside that he only 
consumed half as much Madeira or Canary as any one of 
his boon companions. 

In fine, the new Collector of the Port of Boston was 
regarded as a veritable Prince Charming, and many were 
the heart-burnings which he caused. Would he eventu- 
ally return to England a confirmed bachelor, or would he 
wed some fair maiden who rode proudly through the 
crooked lanes of Boston ? That was the question which 
nearly all the members of the official set constantly asked 

39 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

of themselves. Meanwhile Frankland was living in 
princely style. He would, in time, purchase an elaborate 
brick mansion at what afterwards became the corner of 
Garden Court and Prince Street (the very house which 
James Fenimore Cooper has used for a description in one 
of his novels) besides laying out for himself a costly 
plantation at Hopkinton. That brick mansion, which has 
long since gone the way of other historic dwellings, 
would be considered handsome even in these latter days 
of lavish architecture. It afforded generous entertain- 
ment to a long list of distinguished guests whose names 
are now forgotten. 

At last the gay bachelor was to meet his fate, albeit in 
a very lowly guise. He was called, one day, upon an 
official visit to the town of Marblehead, and here put up, 
no doubt in much pomp and state, at the village inn. 
While sitting in the public room he noticed, only in a 
vague way, as befitted so great a personage, that a girl, 
scarcely more than a child, was engaged in the not over- 
lofty occupation of scrubbing the floor. There was 
nothing in the sight worthy of a second thought. But in 
a moment the girl lifted her head, and what a change! 
We can readily fancy Frankland giving vent to some old- 
fashioned exclamation like "Zounds!" or "Oddsbod- 
kinsl" To look at that face was to forget all else. 
Wavy black hair, great dark eyes, pretty features, a 
superb complexion, and a sweet, refined expression! 
These were not the customary charms of a scrub-girl. 

40 



PEASANT AND PATRICIAN 

The future baronet gasped in astonishment. Finally he 
called the child to him, and she came, neither boldly nor 
at all embarrassed. He saw that she was about sixteen 
years old, but slight and delicately built. He spoke to 
her, and she answered in a melodious, flute-like voice 
that reminded him of the song of a bird. The Collector 
grew more and more interested. When he addressed 
some remark to her in a tone of badinage he found her 
quite as witty as she was beautiful. Yet she was only 
the daughter of two humble folk of Marblehead; her 
dress was worn and scanty and she wore neither shoes 
nor stockings. 

" Here's a crown for a pair of shoes," he said at last, 
handing her a coin. The girl, whose name was Agnes 
Surriage, took it as any other scrubbing-wench might 
have done, but with courteous thanks, and went away. 
Frankland was soon back in Boston, where, we may be 
sure, he told his friends of the wonderful creature he had 
seen at the Marblehead inn. Then he straightway pro- 
ceeded to forget her. 

Later on Frankland chanced to make another visit to 
Marblehead. There, in the inn once more, was Agnes 
Surriage, still scrubbing away, and still as lovely as ever. 
But she was barefooted as before. 

" Have you not bought shoes with the crown I gave 
you ? " asked the Collector. 

"I have indeed, sir," replied the girl simply, "but I 

keep the shoes to wear to meeting, may it please you." 

41 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

Never, thought Frankland, had a reply been made with 
such charming grace. He was captivated, then and there, 
by the girl. He vowed that one who possessed such a 
face and bearing should never more waste her sweetness 
on the desert air of Marblehead. So he sought her par- 
ents, and obtained from them permission to send her to 
Boston to be educated. 

Agnes, nothing loath, was soon domiciled with a 
family in Boston. There she received the best training 
that the town could afford. As the aforesaid training in- 
cluded, in addition to the " Three R's," such abstruse and 
varied sciences as music, grammar, dancing and embroid- 
ery, we may infer that the intellectual preeminence of 
the city had already begun. Under the influence of 
such an array of learning the girl blossomed into radiant 
womanhood, with graces that would have done credit to 
a duchess, and a half-dark, half-rosy beauty of which few 
duchesses could boast. People marveled at the distinc- 
tion of one who had been brought up to scrub the floors 
of an inn. Perhaps, after all, there flowed blue blood in 
the veins of Agnes Surriage. Could we take a genealog- 
ical microscope, and examine far back into the family 
tree of the Surriages, we might find some wicked Plan- 
tagenet, a stray marquis, or a gay duke, concealed in the 
trunk. 

There was one person who watched the development 
of this flower from Marblehead first with interest, then 
with wonder, and at last, with deepest love. The proud 

42 



PEASANT AND PATRICIAN 

scion of one of the noblest families in the north of Eng- 
land one day woke up to find that he had lost his heart 
to the ex-servant. He quite forgot her former badge of 
servitude when he looked into her great eyes, or watched 
the piquant play of her features, or listened to the tones 
of her thrush-like voice. He only knew that he loved 
her as he had never loved any of the great belles of his 
acquaintance. Then he told her so, quite as humbly as 
if he had been paying court to a sovereign. 

How felt Agnes Surriage ? She returned that love with 
all the devotion of her ardent nature. She no longer 
looked upon Charles Henry Frankland as a benefactor; 
she now regarded him as her lover. And as her future 
husband ? Who shall answer that question ? For a time 
her romance suggests 

" The old, old story — fair and young, 
And fond — and not too wise, — 
That matrons tell with sharpened tongue." 

When Agnes went to church of a Sunday in King's 
Chapel, looking a picture of loveliness in a gown lately 
brought over from London, the ladies of the fashionable 
set cast upon her curious glances, wherein scorn and 
grudging admiration had equal combination. She, re- 
gardless of the attention she was attracting, listened 
patiently to the sermon of the English divine, or else 
prayed earnestly. And, sinner though she might be, her 
prayers were more heartfelt, perhaps, and more heeded, 
than those of the virtuous ladies who could scarce stifle 

43 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

their yawns until service should be over. Then, when 
church was out, what a staring at Miss Surriage as she 
passed out into the street! 

Thus life went on as the two lovers read together 
Steele, and Richardson, Swift, Addison and Pope, or 
cultivated flowers, and enjoyed the music in which they 
both were so proficient. At last we find that Sir Charles 
Henry Frankland has resigned his position as Collector of 
the Port of Boston, and returned to England. Through 
the death of an uncle he has now become a baronet. 
Next he is living in Lisbon, Portugal, which, notwith- 
standing its churches and its fondness for ecclesiastical 
pomp, is one of the most corrupt cities on the face of the 
globe. There, too, is the constant Agnes. She is glad 
to get away from England, where she was coldly re- 
ceived. 

It is the first day of November, 1755 — a date long to 
be remembered in the annals of all that is horrible in his- 
tory. But there is nothing ominous in the sun which is 
shining this morning over the hills of the city, gilding 
the spires, and domes and housetops, and touching softly 
the sails of the boats on the lazy waters of the river 
Tagus. The streets are filled with crowds of people on 
their way to mass. For it is All Saints' Day, one of 
the most elaborate festivals, as kept by the Portuguese, 
in the calendar of the Roman Catholic Church. Already 
the bells have ceased to ring; the hurrying worshipers 
are kneeling in their respective temples; the priests are 

44 



PEASANT AND PATRICIAN 

reciting the Latin of the mass. Suddenly an awful sound 
is heard. It is not exactly a roar, but a sickening, crack- 
ing sound. People rush screaming out of the churches 
only to find that the sun is darkened and that buildings 
are tumbling down in every direction. The earth is 
quaking, as if at any moment the whole city might be 
swallowed up in her bowels; men are flying here, there, 
anywhere, their faces blanched, their minds distraught, 
crazed; and the streets are soon filled with the dead or 
the dying who have been crushed beneath falling walls. 
For twenty minutes the earth continues to tremble, as 
"the waters of the Tagus roll into the sea, leaving ves- 
sels on the naked ground, and then come foaming, rush- 
ing back," and sweep a crowd of frantic people on the 
new marble quay to swift destruction. The loss of life 
and property is terrific. So violent are the shocks of 
earthquake on that fatal Saturday that the splendid palace 
of the King, the Custom House, India House, new opera 
houses, as many as thirty churches, and almost all the 
stores and dwelling-houses, are in ruins, and nearly thirty 
thousand people are crushed and killed beneath them. 
"As if to add to the horror of this dreadful scene the 
prisoners are let loose, and then incendiary fires spring 
up on every hand." Fortunately for the King of Portu- 
gal and his court, they are at Belem, just w,ithout the city, 
at the time when the catastrophe occurs. 

On this very morning Frankland has driven out in com- 
pany with a gay lady residing in the city. The two are 

45 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

decked in their best, for they are on their way to the 
Cathedral, As they bowl along they chat merrily ; life is 
bright; the future seems secure. At the moment that 
the terrific earthquake begins, about half-past ten o'clock, 
the baronet is passing the house of one Francesco de 
Ribeiro. Suddenly he feels as if he is the victim of a 
hideous nightmare: the earth is heaving under him like 
the waves of old ocean; walls begin to tremble and fall, 
and people to shriek out in agony. Another minute, and 
the house of Ribeiro has enveloped him, his driving com- 
panion, the horses and the carriage in its ruins. The 
lady, in her awful pain and fear, bites through the sleeve 
of his broadcloth coat and tears a piece out of his arm. 
The horses are soon dead; their almost human groans 
are stifled forever. There lie the two occupants of the 
carriage, who were so full of merriment but a second be- 
fore. Will help never come ? Frankland, lying there 
prostrate, bleeding, prays to the Almighty for mercy, as 
his sins, of which there are not a few, come crowding into 
his memory like so many evil, haunting spirits. He 
" makes a solemn vow to God, that if He will show him 
pity, to lead henceforth a better life, and especially to 
atone for wrongs done to Agnes Surriage." It is one of 
those soul-stirring moments vouchsafed to few men who 
live to tell the story. 

And where is the faithful Agnes Surriage, whose honor 
the stricken baronet has sworn to redeem in the eyes of 
the world ? She, too, is in Lisbon, whither she has gone 

46 



PEASANT AND PATRICIAN 

out of love for the man who rescued her from the life of 
a scrubbing wench in a mean New England inn. When 
the city is convulsed by this upheaval her one thought is 
for Frankland. Regardless of danger, oblivious of her 
own safety, she runs through the ghastly streets, strewn 
with dead or dying, and comes by sheer good fortune, 
(or is it love that leads the way ?) in front of the fallen 
house of Francesco de Ribeiro. Here she recognizes the 
hoarse voice of her lover calling for help. Here, too, she 
hears the fainter voice of his companion. Some Portu- 
guese workmen, uninjured by the havoc around them, 
are lingering in the neighborhood, with true Southern 
aimlessness. "Save Sir Charles Frankland," Agnes cries 
loudly in anguish, in a voice which for once has lost its 
customary sweetness, " and a great reward in gold shall 
be yours!" 

The men, spurred on by the hope of reward, strain 
every nerve to rescue the two from the debris. Agnes, 
fearful, yet as calm as in the days when she first saw her 
lover at Marblehead across the sea, encourages them by 
word and gesture until, after an hour's work, they bring 
forth the baronet and the lady. The two are alive, and not 
seriously hurt, though covered with the stones and dusty 
mortar of Ribeiro's stricken house. Never has Agnes, 
pale though she is, looked handsomer than at this instant. 
An artist might well paint the look which she fastens 
upon Frankland, as the bleeding aristocrat is dragged into 
the light of day. There is a look no less full of meaning on 

47 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

his face also. For, in spite of all things, their love for each 
other is as great as in the old days in Boston. When he 
is taken away, that he may have his wounds dressed, 
Frankland does not forget the vow he has made less 
than two hours before. 

A few days later he writes in his diary — a diary, be it 
noted, that is still in existence — "1 hope my providen- 
tial escape will have a lasting good effect upon my 
mind. We should endeavor to pacify the Divine 
wrath by sorrow for past neglects, and a future 
conscientious discharge of our duty to God and our 
country." And, with that laudable ambition in view. 
Sir Charles Henry is married to Agnes Surriage by a priest 
of the Roman church. Then he embarks with his bride 
for England, and to make the marriage bonds more bind- 
ing if possible, he has the ceremony performed on board 
ship by a clergyman of the Church of England. When he 
arrives in his own country the members of his family and 
the noble circle in which they move salute the new Lady 
Frankland as the embodiment of all the graces. She 
comes now as a wife, and they forget the past. The 
Franklands, the Pelhams, the Pitts, the Walpoles and the 
rest rave over the beauty and the accomplishments, the 
sweet disposition and the wonderful voice of the ex- 
domestic. If they do not condemn her spelling (which 
was somewhat shaky until the last day of her life) it is 
because even the greatest men of the eighteenth century 

were not adepts in the genteel art of putting the right 

48 



PEASANT AND PATRICIAN 

letter in the right place. Spelling was, more or less, a mat- 
ter of taste rather than of rule. As for Agnes — well, she 
is now Lady Frankland, and happier than she ever was 
before. One of the prayers which she was wont to offer 
in the King's chapel, far away in Boston, has been 
answered. 

After another trip to Lisbon the Franklands find them- 
selves once more in Boston. Agnes is no longer looked 
upon with contemptuous eyes; the very women who 
once treated her so scornfully now rush to pay her 
their homage. But she, taking the world as it comes, goes 
on being as attractive as of old without pride or ostenta- 
tion, and proves quite as friendly to her humble relatives, 
the Surriages, as she is to her guests in velvet and silken 
attire. When her brother, Isaac Surriage, a plain sea- 
man, stops in at the Franklands' magnificent residence in 
Bell Alley, he is always sure of a hearty welcome. Per- 
haps it is because he has the tact to time his visits so that 
he will not annoy any of the official set. We may be 
sure, however, that the dandies and fine ladies of Boston 
are quite ready to stamp as " charming " any kinsman of 
Lady Frankland. What might once have been accounted 
want of breeding in Isaac Surriage is now nothing more 
than the most delightful eccentricity. Thus can we 
color our opinions of men and things to suit our mood, 
or our interest. 

The years roll on prosperously. The happy couple 
pay another visit to Portugal; then they come back to 

49 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

Boston, and at last (1764) they settle in Bath, England. 
Here Sir Charles Henry, who now considers himself old 
and sedate, tries to bring back declining health by a 
plentiful consumption of the celebrated waters of the 
great spa. "I endeavor to keep myself calm and sedate," 
reads an entry in his diary at this time. "I live modestly 
and avoid ostentation, decently and not above my con- 
dition, and do not entertain a number of parasites who 
forget favors the moment they depart from my 
table." 

Nowadays a man who has not passed the fifty-year 
post on time's turnpike usually considers himself to be 
comparatively young; but in the eighteenth century men 
lived harder, and abused their digestions more than they 
do now, so that they often became prematurely old. 
English prigs of twenty, who frequented Drury Lane 
Theatre to ogle the occupants of the boxes, or to shout 
out '* Egad, 1 call this a bad play," were more blas^ than 
the average modern Englishman of three times that age. 
Frankland is hardly an example of such precocity. But 
he had enjoyed life, not forgetting the good things of the 
table, and was now receiving earthly punishment there- 
for in the shape of the gout, that melancholy visitor who 
always causes us to view the world through dull, blue 
glasses. The gout conquered him in due time, for he 
died early in the year 1768. Agnes, who had loved and 
faithfully tended him so long as life lasted, buried him in 
a village near Bath and placed upon his tombstone a 

50 



PEASANT AND PATRICIAN 

quaint inscription. Then she quietly went back to her 
old home in New England, there to live in much mag- 
nificence at Hopkinton, the country estateof the deceased 
baronet. It was a home fit for the finest lady in England. 
Upon the outbreak of the Revolution, in 1775, the 
friends of American liberty began to look upon Lady 
Frankland with suspicion. Though not an aristocrat by 
birth, she was at least one by marriage; her friends were, 
for the most part, staunch Tories, and her sympathies, no 
doubt, were running in the same direction. It is certain 
that she fast became unpopular, and that she determined 
to seek a refuge in England, with the family of her dead 
husband. So she applied to the Committee of Safety, 
while she was still residing at Hopkinton, for permission 
to enter Boston, now held by the British troops, that she 
might sail from there for her future home. The request 
was granted, with leave to pass into the beleaguered town 
with six trunks, three beds, one "small keg of pickled 
tongues," two pigs (why, oh why, should a heroine of 
romance travel with two pigs?) a quantity of boxes, 
and other " necessaries." But on her way from Hopkin- 
ton her carriage was stopped by armed militiamen, and 
she was held in custody as a suspicious character, dan- 
gerous to the American cause! Her beauty, much of 
which she still retained, was no avail against the stern 
mandate of these patriots. The influence of Lady Frank- 
land in the country of her birth had departed. Mars, 
not Cupid, was now king. The Continental Congress, 

61 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

however, more gallant and less suspicious than the mili- 
tiamen, overruled the action of the latter, and sent the 
lady into Boston, almost in triumph, under the protection 
of a guard of six soldiers, in company with the six 
trunks (no doubt crammed with London finery), the 
three beds, the pickled tongues, the prosaic pigs, and the 
other "necessaries." At once the British officers, among 
them John Burgoyne, who was to prove to the world 
that a successful playwright may make an incompetent 
general, paid their court to the newcomer. In spite of 
her fifty odd years, thought these gentlemen, Lady 
Frankland was as fascinating as many an English woman 
but half her age. Here was one fair American, at least, 
whom they could admire and treat without that boorish- 
ness which sometimes accompanied their manners, or 
the want thereof, on this side of the water. 

In the course of this pleasurable experience occurred 
the battle of Bunker Hill, which first showed to the as- 
tonished Britons that Americans were not a rabble of 
cowards. Lady Frankland watched the engagement 
from the roof of her old house in Bell Alley, and, when 
all was over, assisted in caring for the wounded sol- 
diers who were brought into the town. Surely that kind 
heart of hers must have bled, even though she made no 
sign, for her own countrymen who had fought so 
stoutly against the well-trained British regulars. Soon 
after the battle she took ship for England. She was 
never more to see the New World. 

52 



PEASANT AND PATRICIAN 

It might have been supposed that the widow would 
put an appropriate close to the romance of her life by 
dying with the name of Charles Henry Frankland upon 
her lips. Perhaps she did, for she had loved him with a 
love seldom seen outside of the old-fashioned three- 
volume novel. But my Lady so far forgot the proprie- 
ties and rules laid down by authors of fiction as to wed, 
when she was on the verge of sixty, a certain wealthy 
English banker, one John Drew. Her second season of 
married life was short, however, for her death occurred 
the following year (1783). But Lady Frankland's de- 
voted love will never be forgotten. So long as Ameri- 
cans take interest in pictures of the past — and let us hope 
that such interest will only increase as the years roll on 
— the memory of Agnes Surriage, Lady Frankland, will 
endure. She will ever make a very human figure 
against the prim background of New England colonial 
life. 

The manorial house at Hopkinton was destroyed by 
fire many years ago, but as long as it stood, a mute il- 
lustration of the story of the Franklands, visitors were 
shown a certain room which was regarded in the neigh- 
borhood with a particular reverence. Here, says the 
legend, Sir Charles Henry shut himself up on more than 
one All Saints' Day, the anniversary of the Lisbon earth' 
quake, to spend the long hours behind closed shutters, in 
prayer and penitential fasting. Then he returned to his 
wife. To him she always continued as young as she 

53 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

was on the morning when he first saw her scrubbing 
floors in the Marblehead inn. A right noble gentleman 
was Sir Charles Henry Frankland. We may forgive him 
his sins for the good that was in the man. 



54 



WAR AND FLIRTATION 



\r 



Ill 

WAR AND FLIRTATION 

IF the historian desires to get a graphic idea of the 
lives of our ancestors, and would find out that 
those worthies were quite like other human beings 
who dwell in a more modern atmosphere, let him dip 
into the diaries which some of them have left behind as 
attractive relics of the past. It is from such unambitious 
memorials that we obtain many a social fact, many a 
picturesque incident, which we would look for in vain 
in the pages of a Bancroft. It is the very unpretentious- 
ness of these yellow-leaved records that charms us. 

Nothing of this kind is better in its way than the diary 
of Sally Wister, a Quaker maiden of Philadelphia, wherein 
the Revolutionary characters she introduces seem to be 
breathing, sentient creatures, and wherein, too, we have 
a glimmer of romance which nowadays would be de- 
scribed as flirtation. Miss Wister, who was the eldest 
daughter of Daniel Wister, was a vivacious girl of six- 
teen, sparkling with health and spirits, at the time that 
this diary was begun. She had just moved with her fam- 
ily from Philadelphia to Penllyn, Montgomery County, 
when it became evident, after the battle of the Brandy- 

57 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA. 

wine, that the British would occupy the Quaker City. 
At this interesting period Miss Sally resided on the 
Foulke estate, a portion of which still remains on one 
side of the North Pennsylvania Railroad, near Penllyn 
station. The whole neighborhood is filled with memories 
of the Revolution. If we wander along the old Morris 
Road, or loiter on the banks of the upper Wissahickon 
with Miss Sally's diary in hand, we almost expect to see 
the writer herself appear until we hear the rumbling of a 
train or the screech of a locomotive, when we realize that 
we are living in the twentieth century. 

Miss Wister was at a very naive, impressionable age, 
and her heart was thrilled by the excitement into which 
the whole country surrounding Philadelphia was thrown 
by the manoeuvring of British and American troops. 
What better way to ease her feelings, therefore, than to 
keep a journal ? Miss Sally had a dear friend, Deborah 
Norris (afterwards the wife of Dr. George Logan, of 
Stenton), and, as it was impossible for her to send a 
letter to Miss Deborah, then in Philadelphia, Sally re- 
solved to record the passing events of each day on paper, 
with the hope that some time later her friend might derive 
pleasure from their perusal. Under date of September 
26, 1777, she writes: 

"About twelve o'clock Cousin Jesse [Foulke] heard 
that General Howe's army had moved down towards 
Philadelphia. Then, my dear, our hopes and fears were 
engaged for thee. However, my advice is, summon all 

58 



WAR AND FLIRTATION 

thy resolution, call Fortitude to thy aid, don't suffer thy 
spirits to sink, my dear; there's nothing like courage; 
'tis what I stand in need of myself, but unfortunately 
have little of it in my composition. I was standing in 
the kitchen about twelve, when somebody came to me 
in a hurry screaming, ' Sally, Sally, here are the light 
horse!' This was by far the greatest fright I had en- 
dured; fear tack'd wings to my feet; I was at the house 
in a moment; at the porch I stopped, and it really was 
the light horse. I ran immediately to the western door, 
where the family were assembled, anxiously waiting for 
the event. They rode up to the door and halted, and 
enquired if we had horses to sell; but were answered 
negatively. * Have not you sir,' to my father, ' two black 
horses?' 'Yes, but have no mind to dispose of them.' 
My terror had by this time nearly subsided. The officer 
and men behaved perfectly civil; the first drank two 
glasses of wine, rode away, bidding his men to follow, 
which, after adieus in number, they did." 

Almost as Miss Sally was writing these lines the 
British were taking possession of Philadelphia. From 
now onward the Foulke mansion became a stopping- 
place for American officers, many of whom were only 
too glad to chat with the pretty chronicler and to admire 
her coy ways and attractive little impertinences. The 
young lady herself had a keen eye for the good points of 
the soldiers. As she sits down in the evening, to make 
an entry in the all important journal, we fancy that she 

59 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

blushes over the thought of some compliment or tender 
word of which she has been the object during the day. 
When General Smallwood and the officers of his staff 
took up quarters in the house there was great excitement, 
and not a little fluttering of the heart, on the part both of 
Miss Sally and her cousin, Lydia Foulke. To be under 
the same roof with so many interesting men, some of 
them eligible bachelors, was " prodigious good fun! " 

*' The General," wrote Sally, '• is tall, portly, well 
made: a truly martial air, the behavior and manner of a 
gentleman, a good understanding and great humanity of 
disposition, constitute the character of Smallwood. 
Colonel Wood, [subsequently Governor of Virginia] from 
what we hear of him, and what we see is one of the 
most amiable of men. . . . Colonel Line is not 
married, so let me not be too warm in his praise, lest thee 
suspect. He is monstrous tall and brown, but has a cer- 
tain something in his face and conversation very agree- 
able; he entertains the highest notions of honor, is 
sensible and humane, and a brave officer. He is only 
seven-and-twenty years old, but, by a long indisposition 
and constant fatigue, looks vastly older, and almost worn 
to a skeleton, but very lively and talkative. Captain 
Furnival — I need not say more of him than that he has, 
excepting one or two, the handsomest face I ever saw, a 
very fine person; fine light hair, and a great deal of it, 
adds to the beauty of his face. Well, here comes the 
glory, the Major, — [Major Stoddert, of Maryland, after- 

60 



WAR AND FLIRTATION 

wards Secretary of the Navy] so bashful, so famous, etc. ; 
he should come before the Captain, but never mind. I 
at first thought the Major cross and proud, but I was 
mistaken; he is about nineteen, nephew to the Gen- 
eral. . . . Captain Finley is wretched ugly, but he 
went away last night, so I shall not particularize 
him. . . . Colonels Wood and Line and [Dr.] Gould 
dined with us. I was dressed in my chintz, and looked 
smarter than night before." 

A true feminine touch, Miss Sally, is in that last 
sentence. We can fancy you sitting up very straight at 
the dinner-table, as you pretend to serene unconscious- 
ness of the admiring glances that are being showered 
upon you in that chintz dress. 

It is not long before Major Stoddert recovers from his 
bashfulness, and is getting on famously with the demure 
young woman, it is plain, too, that she thinks him a 
sort of paragon. "I must tell thee," she confides to 
Miss Deborah Norris, under a date in October, "to-day 
arrived Colonel Guest [probably Mordecai Gist], and 
Major Leatherberry, the former a smart widower; the 
latter a lawyer, a sensible young fellow, and will never 
swing for want of tongue. Dr. Diggs came second day; 
a mighty disagreeable man. We were obliged to ask 
him to tea. He must needs pop himself between the 
Major and me, for which 1 did not thank him. After I 
had drank tea, I jumped from the table, and seated my- 
self at the fire. The Major followed my example, drew 

61 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

his chair close to mine and entertained me very agree- 
ably. Oh, Debby, I have a thousand things to tell thee, 
I shall give thee so droll an account of my adventures 
that thee will smile. 'No occasion of that, Sally,' me- 
thinks I hear thee say, 'for thee tells me every trifle.' 
But, child, thee is mistaken, for I have not told thee half 
the civil things that are said of us sweet creatures at 
* General Smallwood's quarters.' " ^ 

Truly some of the girls of a century and a quarter ago 
were not a whit more sanctimonious than the girls of 
to-day. Again Miss Sally writes: "The Major and I had 
a little chat to ourselves this eve. No harm, I assure 
thee; he and I are friends. This eve came a parson be- 
longing to the army. He is (how shall I describe him ?) 
near seven foot high, thin, and meagre, not a single per- 
sonal charm, and very few mental ones. He fell vio- 
lently in love with Liddy [Fouike] at first sight; the first 
discovered conquest that has been made since the arrival 
of the General. . . . When will Sally's admirers ap- 
pear.? Ah! that indeed. Why, Sally has not charms 
sufficient to pierce the heart of a soldier. But still I 
won't despair. Who knows what mischief I yet may 
do? 

"A most charming day. I walked to the door and re- 
ceived the salutation of the morn from Stoddert and 

1 The reader who would know something of the neighborhood in which 
Miss Sally lived at this time should consult the researches of Mr. Howard 
M. Jenkins. 



WAR AND FLIRTATION 

other officers. As often as I go to the door, so often 
have I seen the Major. We chat passingly, as ' A fine 
day. Miss Sally.' 'Yes, very fine, Major.' 

"Another very charming conversation with the young 
Marylander. He seems possessed of very amiable man- 
ners, sensible and agreeable. He has by his unexcep- 
tional deportment engaged my esteem." 

it begins to look. Miss Sally, as if the Major's bashful- 
ness has disappeared entirely, and as if your "esteem," 
as you quaintly call it, meant something more than is 
implied by that highly decorous word. But to continue 
the diary : 

"The General, Colonels Wood, Guest, Crawford and 
Line, Majors Stoddert [Miss Sally always spells it Stodard, 
by-the-way] and Leatherberry dined with us to-day. 
After dinner, Liddy, Betsey [Wister], and thy smart 
journalizer, put on their bonnets to take a walk. We 
left the house. I naturally looked back; when, behold, 
the two majors seemed debating whether to follow us or 
not. Liddy said, 'We shall have their attendance,' but I 
did not think so. They opened the gate and came fast 
after us. They overtook us about ten poles from home, 
and begged leave to attend us. No fear of a refusal. 
They enquired if we were going to neighbor Ro- 
berts's? . . . We altered the plan of our ramble, 
left the road, and walked near two miles thro' the woods. 
Mr. Leatherberry, observing my locket, repeated the 
lines : 

63 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

" • On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, 
That Jews might kiss and infidels adore.' 

"I replied my trinket bore no resemblance to a cross. 
*Tis something better, madame.' 'Tis nonsense tore- 
peat all that was said; my memory is not so obliging; 
but it is sufficient that nothing happened during our 
little excursion but what was very agreeable, and entirely 
consistent with the strictest rules of politeness and de- 
corum. I was vexed a little at tearing my muslin petti- 
coat. I had on my white dress, quite as nice as a first- 
day in town. We returned home safe. Smallwood, 
Wood and Stoddert drank tea with us, and spent the 
greater part of the evening. I declare this gentleman [no 
need to interpose that Miss Sally means Stoddert] is very, 
very entertaining, so good-natured, so good-humored, — 
yes, so sensible; I wonder he is not married. Are there 
no ladies formed to his taste ?" 

Fie I Miss Sally! Do you not know of at least one lady 
who is formed to the Major's taste ? 

Well, all this game of flirtation is interrupted by the de- 
parture of Smallwood and his staff from Penllyn early in 
November. "The Major looks dull," plaintively chron- 
icles Miss Sally, in announcing that the officers are about 
to leave. Perhaps the Major is only a very good actor, 
and thinks it more polite to go about with the air of a 
distraught hero in bombastic tragedy. When he bids 
the girl farewell he is much affected; he lowers his pleas- 
ant voice almost to a whisper as he says: "Good-bye, 

64 



WAR AND FLIRTATION 

Miss Sally." As for the latter, her heart is full. "Fare- 
well, ladies, till I see you again! " cries the Major, mount- 
ing his horse and cantering off towards the Morris Road. 
"Amiable Major!" "Clever fellow!" remark the Wis- 
ters and Foulkes who watch regretfully the retreating 
figure of the officer. " I wonder if we shall ever see him 
again, "sighs Miss Sally, who feels rather dreary, poor thing. 
When, several weeks after the Major has joined the 
forces of Washington at White Marsh, there arrive at the 
Foulke house two Virginia officers. Miss Sally is in no 
mood to appreciate them. How can Lieutenants Lee 
and Warring be compared with Major Stoddert ? " Lee," 
she records, "is not remarkable one way or the other; 
Warring an insignificant piece enough. Lee sings pret- 
tily, and talks a great deal; — how good turkey hash and 
fried hominy are (a pretty discourse to entertain the 
ladies); extols Virginia, and execrates Maryland, which, 
by-the-way, I provoked them to; for though I admire 
both Virginia and Maryland, I laughed at the former, and 
praised the latter, and I ridiculed their manner of speak- 
ing. I took a great delight in teasing them. I believe I 
did it sometimes ill-naturedly; but I don't care. They 
were not, 1 am certain almost, first-rate gentlemen. 
(How different from those other officers.) But they are 
gone to Virginia, where they may sing, dance, and eat 
fried hominy and turkey hash all day long, if they choose. 
Nothing scarcely lowers a man, in my opinion, more 
than talking of eating." 

65 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

It is on the sixth of December that Major Stoddert re- 
turns to Penllyn in a highly romantic and therefore, to 
Miss Sally, a very interesting state. He has had a severe 
fever, brought on by the fatigue of camp life and expo- 
sure to the night air, and he can scarcely walk. How^ pale 
he looks, yet how charming will it be for a certain 
maiden to help him back to health! 

The next day the Major announces that he is "quite 
recovered." "Well," says Miss Sally, half-laughingly, 
" I fancy this indisposition hath saved thy head this 
time." "No, ma'am," replies the officer, who would not 
be accused, even in the spirit of fun, of playing the in- 
valid for the sake of his life; "for if I hear a firing I 
shall soon be with the troops!" The girl is thrilled. 
"That was heroic! " she says, and she signalizes the re- 
turn of the wandering Major by decking herself out in a 
new and very much " grown-up " gown of silk and cot- 
ton. "I feel quite awkwardish, and prefer the girlish 
dress," she explains; but we may be sure that she kept 
one of her bright eyes pinned on the soldier's face, to 
discover what he would think of the silk and cotton. 

One evening following this incident, Miss Sally and 
Miss Liddy Foulke are having a very delightful time in 
the drawing-room, talking to the convalescent Major, 
who seems in no hurry to eschew the sirens of Penllyn. 
Perhaps Miss Sally wishes Miss Liddy would make it 
convenient to leave the — but no matter! Suddenly the 
former asks the Major if he will return to tell them 

66 



WAR AND FLIRTATION 

about the next battle in which he will be engaged. "I 
certainly will, ma'am," he says devotedly, "if I am 
favored with my life." Sally must catch her breath at 
the awful contingency, while the Major, the sly dog, is 
doubtless anxious she should have a keen idea of the un- 
certainty of human life, and of his life in particular. 
Then Miss Liddy, who is either very tactless or a great 
tease, blurts out that there is a man in the kitchen who 
has just come from the army. Up jumps Stoddert. He 
is only too anxious to hear news from his companions 
in arms, who are soon to break camp at White Marsh and 
march to Valley Forge. "Good-night to you, ladies," he 
says, as his manly form disappears through the drawing- 
room doorway. 

"Liddy, thee hussy," angrily cries Miss Sally; "what 
business had thee to mention a word of the army ? Thee 
sees it sent him off. Thy evil genius prevailed, and we 
all feel the effects of it." 

"Lord bless me," pleads Liddy Foulke, "I had not a 
thought of his going, or for ten thousand worlds I would 
not have spoke." 

The Major returns no more that night, and Miss Sally 
becomes so "low-spirited " that she can "hardly speak." 

Once, some days later, the Major hears the sound of 
platoon firing. The occupants of the Foulke mansion 
rush out excitedly into the road. The two armies, they 
declare, must be engaging each other; perhaps General 
Howe has come out from his cozy quarters in Philadel- 

67 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

phia to attack General Washington. The Major, still an 
invalid, says quietly to one of the Wister servants: "Will 
you be kind enough to saddle my horse ? I shall go! " 

"It is nothing but skirmishing with the flanking 
parties," observes a gentleman. "Do not go. Major!" 
"Oh, Major," cries Miss Sally, forgetting her prudence, 
"thee is not going ? " " Yes, I am. Miss Sally," says the 
officer, bowing low, and doubtless relishing the heroic 
light in which Sally is regarding him. He goes out into 
the highway, bent on battle. She expects to see him 
brought back a corpse. But the firing ceases, and the 
Major is persuaded to return to the house. It has been 
only a skirmish, after all. Sally is charmed. "Ill as he 
was," she writes, "he would have gone. It showed his 
bravery, of which we all believed him possessed of a 
large share." 

Next the Major goes off to join the troops encamped at 
Valley Forge. "I don't think we shall see him again," 
Sally confides to Miss Deborah Norris. In the meantime 
two more officers arrive on the scene. They are a Cap- 
tain Lipscomb and a Mr. Tilly. The Captain is "tall, 
genteel," with a "softness" in his countenance that is 
"very pleasing," and with light, shining auburn hair 
which delights all feminine beholders. Although he is 
not a "lady's man," Miss Sally finds him "perfectly po- 
lite." She thus sketches the appearance of Tilly: "He 
seems a wild, noisy mortal, tho' I am not much ac- 
quainted with him. He appears bashful when with girls. 

68 




Miss Sally Wister 



WAR AND FLIRTATION 

We dissipated the Major's bashfulness, but I doubt we 
have not so good a subject now. He is above the com- 
mon size, rather genteel, an extreme pretty, ruddy face, 
hair brown, and a sufficiency of it, very great laughter, 
and talks so excessively fast that he often begins a sen- 
tence without finishing the last, which confuses him very 
much, and then he blushes and laughs. . . . While 
we sat at tea, the parlor door was opened; in came 
Tilly; his appearance was elegant; he had been riding; 
the wind had given the most beautiful glow to his cheeks. 
Oh, my heart, thought 1, be secure! The caution was 
needless; 1 found it without a wish to stray." 

Evidently Miss Sally's heart had no idea of straying 
when it gave room to the absent Major. " I am vexed at 
Tilly," resumes the young lady. " He has a German flute, 
but does nothing but play the fool. He begins a 
tune, plays a note or so, and then stops. After a while 
he begins again; then stops again. 'Will that do?' he 
asks, and bursts into an inane laugh. He has given 
us but two regular tunes since he arrived. I am pas- 
sionately fond of music. How boyish he behaves!" 

While Tilly is making an idiot of himself on the Ger- 
man flute the Major comes prancing back to the Foulke 
house. He has seemingly not relished the idea of camp- 
ing at Valley Forge, and has found some excuse to re- 
turn to the sprightly presence of Miss Wister. The 
latter is entranced. Stoddert takes quick measure of the 
piping Tilly, and concludes that this gentleman will make 

69 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

an excellent subject for a joke. While the girl is darning 
an apron — for the ladies of quality in those days were 
not above mending — the beau (he should have been 
starving at Valley Forge, the rogue!) is complimenting 
her upon her handiwork. "Well, Miss Sally," he asks, 
"what would you do if the British were to come 
here?" 

"Do?" exclaims Miss Sally, with a pretty little shiver. 
She knows the British are still in Philadelphia. "I 
should be frightened just to death! " 

The Major laughs, and says that if the enemy comes 
he will hide himself behind the figure of a British 
grenadier which stands on the first landing of the stair- 
way. It is unusually well executed, six feet high, and 
makes a martial appearance.* A happy thought strikes 
the waggish Major. " Of all things," he says, " 1 should 
like to frighten Tilly with the figure." So a plan is soon 
arranged, amid much whispering and giggling, to test 
the courage of the unsuspecting Tilly. The British 
grenadier is placed at a point of vantage in the hallway, 
and Tilly, being brought face to face with it, and hearing 
one of the conspirators cry, in a thundering voice, " Are 
there any rebel officers here?" promptly turns to the 
right about. "Not waiting for a second word, he darted 
like lightning out of the front door, through the yard, 
and bolted o'er the fence. Swamps, fences, thorn- 

» This figure was afterwards removed to the house of Mr. Charles J. 
Wister, in Germantown. 

70 



WAR AND FLIRTATION 

hedges and ploughed fields in no way impeded 
his retreat." The woods echoed with " Which 
way did he go?" "Stop him!" "Surround the 
house! " 

"The amiable Lipscomb," writes Miss Sally, an hour 
or two later, " had his hand on the latch of the door, in- 
tending to make his escape; Stoddert, considering his 
indisposition, acquainted him with the deceit. The 
females ran down-stairs to join in the general laugh. I 
walked into Jesse's [Jesse Foulke's] parlor. There sat 
poor Stoddert (whose sore lips must have received no ad- 
vantage from this), almost convulsed with laughing, 
rolling in an armchair." 

Poor Miss Sally Wister! She took such a profound in- 
terest in the Major that she was even solicitous for his 
sore lips. 

" He said nothing; I believe he could not have spoke. 
' Major Stoddert,' said I, *go to call Tilly back. He will 
lose himself, — indeed he will ' — every word interrupted 
with a ' Ha! ha! ' At last he rose, and went to the door; 
and what a loud voice could avail in bringing him back 
he tried. Figure to thyself this Tilly, of a snowy even- 
ing, no hat, shoes down at the heel, hair unty'd, flying 
across meadows, creeks and mud-holes. Flying from 
what? Why, a bit of painted wood! But he was 
ignorant of what it was. The idea of being made a 
prisoner wholly engrossed his mind, and his last resource 

was to run. After a while, we being in more com- 

71 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

posure, and our bursts of laughter less frequent, yet by 
no means subsided — in full assembly of girls and officers, 
— Tilly entered. The greatest part of my risibility 
turned to pity. Inexpressible confusion had taken entire 
possession of his countenance, his fine hair hanging 
disheveled down his shoulders, all splashed with mud; 
yet his bright confusion and race had not divested him of 
his beauty. He smiled as he tripped up the steps; but 
'twas vexation placed it on his features. Joy at that 
moment was banished from his heart. He briskly 
walked five or six steps, then stopped, and took a general 
survey of us all. * Where have you been, Mr. Tilly } ' asked 
one officer. We girls were silent. ' I really imagined,* 
said Major Stoddert, * that you were gone for your 
pistols. I followed you to prevent danger,' — an excess- 
ive laugh at each question, which it was impossible to 
restrain. ' Pray, where were your pistols, Tilly ? ' He 
broke his silence by the following expression: ' You may 
all go to .' I never heard him utter an in- 
decent expression before. 

" At last his good nature gained a complete ascendence 
over his anger, and he joined heartily in the laugh. I 
will do him the justice to say that he bore it charmingly. 
No cowardly threats, no vengeance pronounced. Stod- 
dert caught hold of his coat. ' Come, look at what you 
ran away from,' and dragged him to the door. He gave 
it a look, said it was very natural, and by the singularity 
of his expression gave fresh cause for diversion. We 

72 



WAR AND FLIRTATION 

all retired to our different parlors, for the rest of our 
faces, if I may say so." 

The next day Miss Sally has quite forgotten the episode 
of Tilly and the wooden grenadier. " Oh, Deborah," 
she writes plaintively, "the Major is going to leave us 
entirely — just going. I will see him first." There is 
pathos in that second sentence — "I will see him first." 
Who knows what tender words were uttered in that last 
interview? A few hours later she says: " He has gone. 
I saw him pass the bridge. The woods which thee enters 
immediately after crossing it hindered us from following 
him further. 1 seem to fancy he will return in the even- 
ing." At night she jots down in her diary, perhaps to the 
accompaniment of tears, the following: " Stoddert not 
come back. We shall not, I fancy, see him again for 
months, perhaps for years, unless he should visit Phila- 
delphia." 

And thus the entertaining major vanishes from the life 
of Sally Wister, never to return. We hear of him, in 
after years, as a statesman of reputation, but we never 
hear of him, as we should like to, as the betrothed of this 
charming Philadelphia maiden. It is hard to determine 
how serious was this love-affair which unfolded its 
quaint story amid the booming of cannon and the clink 
of swords. Possibly the Major was a sad flirt, and never 
spoke the word which Miss Sally half expected to hear 
trembling on his lips. Let the girl keep her secret. Of 
one thing, at least, we are assured. Until the day when 

73 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

she dies, a staid old maid, Miss Sally will have a soft spot 
in her heart for this departed hero. 

A week after Stoddert's leave-taking the girl chronicles 
that the other officers have gone away to their several 
duties. "I feel sorry at this departure," she adds signifi- 
cantly, "yet 'tis a different kind from what I felt some 
time since." That tells the story better than a thousand 
pages of lamentation. There is truth in simplicity. 

Yet Miss Sally is too young to go into a decline, or to 
think of "silent tombs," because her beau sabreur has 
taken himself off. She still can write attractively of her 
experiences in Montgomery County^ and is by no means 
blind to the attentions of a handsome man. When she 
moves away from the Foulke mansion to join her family 
at a farm in the North Wales district, several miles away, 
she is thrilled by the appearance on the scene of a dis- 
tinguished Virginian. It is now June of 1778. An ele- 
gant officer rides up to the farm, and proceeds to quarter 
five and twenty men in one of the adjacent fields. Miss 
Sally is thrown into a state of pleasurable excitement. 
"What is the name of this man ?" she demands of her 
cousin, "Prissa" Foulke. 

"Dyer, I believe," replies the cousin. 
" Captain Dyer! Oh, the name! What does he say ?" 
" Why, that he will kiss me when he has dined! " 
"Singular, on so short an acquaintance," roguishly ob- 
serves Miss Sally. 

" He came and fixed his arm on the chair 1 sat in," re- 

74 



WAR AND FLIRTATION 

sumes Miss Prissa. "' Pray ma'am,' he asked, ' is there 
not a family from town with you?' 'Yes.' 'What's 
their name ? ' ' Wister.' ' There are two fine girls there. 
I will go chat with them. Pray, did they leave their 
effects in Philadelphia.?' 'Yes, everything almost.' 
'They shall have them again, that they shall.' 

"Oh, Sally," cries Miss Prissa, as she mimics the offi- 
cer's manner, "he's a Virginian; that's greatly in his 
favor! I'm not sure Dyer's his name, but I understood 
so." 

By nightfall Miss Sally has met the mysterious " Dyer," 
and feels, forsooth, as if she had been through the most 
sensational of adventures. For she writes thus to Deborah 
Norris: 

" Take a circumstantial account of this afternoon and 
the person of this extraordinary man. His exterior 
first. His name is not Dyer, but Alexander Spotswood 
Dandridge, which certainly gives a genteel idea of the 
man. I will be particular. His person is more elegantly 
formed than any I ever saw; tall, and commanding. 
[Perhaps Miss Sally makes a mental reservation in favor 
of a certain absent major as she writes this.] His fore- 
head is very white, though the lower part of his face is 
much sunburned; his features are extremely pleasing; 
an even, white set of teeth, dark hair and eyes. I can't 
better describe him than by saying he's the handsomest 
man I ever beheld. Betsey and Liddy coincide in this 
opinion. 

75 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

" After I had sat a while at home in came Dandridge. 
[You are a trifle sly, Miss Sally! Confess that you were 
waiting for him.] He entered into chat immediately. 
Asked if we knew Tacy Vanderen ? Said he courted her, 
and that they were to be married soon. Observed 
my sampler, which was in full view. Wished I would 
teach the Virginians some of my needle wisdom; they 
were the laziest girls in the world. Told his name. 
Laughed and talked incessantly. At last 'May I' (to 
mamma) 'introduce my brother officer.?' We assented; 
so he called him. 'Mr. Watts, Mrs. Wister, young Miss 
Wister. Mr. Watts, ladies, is one of our Virginia chil- 
dren.' He sat down. Tea was ordered. Dandridge 
never drank tea; Watts had done, so we sat to the table 
alone. 'Let's walk in the garden,' said the Captain 
[Dandridge]; so we called Liddy and went (/zo/ Watts). 
We sat down in a sort of summer-house. ' Miss Sally, 
are you a Quaker ? ' ' Yes.' ' Now, are you a Quaker ? ' 
'Yes, I am.' 'Then you are a Tory.?' 'I am not, in- 
deed.' Had we been acquainted seven years, we could 
not have been more sociable." 

Miss Sally has not forgotten the Major, and, evidently, 
is not in love with Captain Dandridge, but she likes to 
amuse herself, and the man in the pale moon looks down 
upon them good-humoredly, with a smile on that twisted 
face of his. As they sit together gazing at nature the 
Captain (who, by the way, is a relation of General Wash- 
ington's wife, who was born a Dandridge) tells the girl 

76 



WAR AND FLIRTATION 

that he must be off the next morning before sunrise. 
Miss Sally is duly impressed by the announcement, and 
thinks how hard must be the life of a soldier. But be- 
hold what she wrote down in the famous diary the next day : 
" I was awakened this morning with a great racket of 
the Captain's servant calling him, but the lazy fellow 
never rose till about half an hour past eight. This his 
daylight ride! I imagined they would be gone before 
now, so I dressed in a green skirt and dark short gown. 
Provoking. So down I came, this Captain (wild wretch) 
standing at the back door. He bowed and called me. I 
only looked, and went to breakfast. About nine I took 
my work and seated myself in the parlor. Not long had 
I sat when in came Dandridge — the handsomest man in 
existence, at least that 1 had ever seen. But stop here, 
while I just say, the night before, chatting upon dress, he 
said he had no patience with those officers who, every 
morn before they went on detachments, would wait to 
be dressed and powdered. 'I am,' said 1, 'excessively 
fond of powder and think it very becoming.' ' Are you ? ' 
he reply'd. ' 1 am very careless, as often wearing my 
cap thus' (turning the back part before) 'as any way.' 
I left off where he came in. He was powdered very 
white, a (pretty colored) brown coat, lapelled with green, 
and white waistcoat, etc., and his 

" ' Sword beside him negligently hung.' 

He made a truly elegant figure. ' Good-morning, Miss 

77 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

Sally. You are very well, I hope?' ' Very well. Pray 
sit down,' which he did close by me. ' Oh, dear,' said I, 
' I see thee is powdered.' 'Yes, ma'am. I have dressed 
myself off for you.' Will I be excused, Debby, if I look 
upon his being powdered in the light of a comphment to 
me ? ' Yes, Sally, as thee is a country maid, and don't 
often meet with compliments.' Saucy Debby Norris! " 

The dashing Dandridge rides away, but his duty, what- 
ever it may have been, does not seem to fatigue or dis- 
tress him, for he is back again before noon. "Oh, Miss 
Sally," he cries merrily, catching the girl's hands, "I 
have a beautiful sweetheart for you! " 

"Pooh! ridiculous!" simpers Miss Sally, with a pretty 
pretense of indignation. " Loose my hands! " 

" Well, but don't be so cross! " 

"Who is he?" asks Miss Sally, with true feminine 
curiosity. 

"Major Clough." 

"I have seen him." 

"Is he not pretty?" 

"To be sure!" 

"I am going to headquarters. Have you any com- 
mands there?" 

"Yes, I have," replies the young lady, very severely. 
" Pray, who is thy commanding officer?" 

"Colonel Bland, ma'am," returns the Captain, in no 
wise frightened. 

"Please give my compliments to him," orders Miss 

78 



WAR AND FLIRTATION 

Sally, "and say I should be glad if he would send thee 
back with a little more manners." 

Thereupon Dandridge becomes, we are told, "intoler- 
ably saucy," and vows that Miss Sally has "a little spite- 
ful heart." Then she protests, amid much laughter, that 
the Captain is a wicked fellow. 

"Sally," he asks, "if Tacy Vanderen won't have me, 
will you?" 

"No, really, none of her discarded lovers!" 

" But, provided I prefer you to her, will you consent?" 

"No, I won't," pouts the Quakeress. 

"Very well, madame." 

" And, after saying he would return to-morrow, among 
a hundred other things," the diary continues, "he ele- 
gantly walked out of the room. Soon he came back, 
took up a volume of Homer's Iliad, and read aloud to us. 
He reads very well, and with judgment. One remark he 
made, that I will relate, on these lines: — 

•» ' WTiile Greece a heavy, thick retreat maintains, 
Wedg'd in one body, like a flight of cranes.' 

"' knows our army won't do so. I wish they 

did.' He laughed, and went away." 

The following day saw the last of the captivating 
Dandridge. Perhaps he would have been quite willing to 
throw over the absent Miss Tacy Vanderen, had Miss 
Wister given him the needed encouragement. The 
young chronicler thus tells of his departure: 

79 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

"Major Clough, Captain Swan, and Mr, Moore, a lieu- 
tenant of liorse, dined with Dandridge, The latter, after 
dinner, came in to bid us adieu. He sat down, and was 
rather saucy. I looked very grave. ' Miss Betsey, you 
have a very ill-natured sister. Observe how cross she 
looks.' He prayed we might part friends, and offered 
his hand. I gave him mine, which he kissed in a very 
gallant manner; and so, with truly affectionate leave, he 
walked to the parlor door. 'God bless you, ladies,' he 
said, bowed, went into the road, mounted a very fine 
horse, and rode away; leaving Watts and the troop 
here to take care of us, as he said. ' Mr. Watts, Miss 
Sally, is a very worthy man; but, poor soul, he is so cap- 
tivated with you, — the pain in his breast all owing to 

you ' But he is gone, and 1 think, as I have escaped 

thus far safe, I am quite a heroine, and need not be fear- 
ful of any of the lords of creation for the future." 

This is the last of Dandridge. Miss Sally, though 
there is still an ache in her heart on account of Major 
Stoddert, has been charmed by the Captain's flattery. 
She thus sums up his character, which, she says, it 
would take the genius of a Hogarth to describe properly. 
"He is possessed of a good understanding, a very liberal 
education, gay and volatile to excess. He is an Indian, 
a gentleman, grave and gay, in the same hour. But what 
signifies? 1 can't give thee a true idea of him; but he 
assumes at pleasure a behavior the most courtly, the 
most elegant of anything I ever saw. He is very enter- 

80 



WAR AND FLIRTATION 

taining company, and very vain of his personal beauties; 
yet nevertheless his character is exceptional." 

Let us give the closing paragraphs of the diary, and we 
have done: 

"Sixth Day, Morn, June ipth, [1778]. 
"We have heard an astonishing piece of news! The 
English have entirely left the city ! [Philadelphia.] It is 
almost impossible! Stay, 1 shall hear further. 

"Sixth Day, Eve. 
"A light horseman has just confirmed the above intel- 
ligence! This is charmante! They decamped yester- 
day. He (the horseman) was in Philadelphia. It is true. 
They have gone. Past a doubt. I can't help exclaiming 
to the girls, — ' Now are you sure the news is true ? Now 
are you sure they have gone.?' 'Yes, yes, yes!' they 
all cry, 'and may they never, never return.' Dr. Gould 
came here to-night. Our army are about six miles off, 
on their march to the Jerseys. 

' ' Seventh Day, Morn. 
"O. F. [Owen Foulke] arrived just now, and related 
as followeth: — The army began their march at six this 
morning by their house. . . . Our brave, our heroic 
General Washington was escorted by fifty of the Life 
Guard, with drawn swords. Each day he acquires an ad- 
dition to his goodness. We have been very anxious to 
know how the inhabitants of Philadelphia have fared. I 

understand that General Arnold, who bears a good char- 

81 



4 



IV 
A BELLE OF DELAWARE 

OLD-FASHIONED novelists and old-fashioned 
readers of a certain type were wont to revel 
in a heroine who had an unfortunate love 
affair, and then died gracefully in the last chapter. Such 
an exit from the mimic world was tearfully regarded as 
the Ultima Thule of satisfying romance. Yet there is 
far more pathos in the story of a heroine who, instead of 
expiring at the right moment, and in a dramatic manner, 
outlives her beauty, fame and fortune and struggles for 
many a month with poverty, and worse still, relentless 
wrinkles. It is exactly the difference between the daz- 
zling electric light suddenly extinguished and the dainty 
wax candle which burns down to the socket and then 
feebly flickers and goes out. Of the wax-candle order 
of romance is the story of Mary Vining, of Delaware, 
that Revolutionary belle who quickened the heart beats 
of many an American officer and brought to her pretty 
feet, even in her middle age, that doughty widower and 
gallant soldier, "Mad" Anthony Wayne. There was 
nothing theatrical in the career of this eighteenth-century 
lady, no hairbreadth escapes, no elopements, yet her life, 
with its conquests, its triumphs and disappointment, 
pleasantly suggests a tale of powdered hair and shoe- 

87 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

buckles, of ceremonious flirtations between the move- 
ments of the minuet, and of those stirring days when 
King George III sent his regiments over to America with 
the worthy object of either shooting or hanging all our 
forefathers. 

Mary Vining, born near Dover in 1756, and the daugh- 
ter of Judge John Vining, had for her heritage beauty, 
fortune and social position. And those three gifts were 
as much prized in colonial Delaware a century and a half 
ago as they are to-day in conservative, dignified Phila- 
delphia or cosmopolitan New York. There was much 
virtue, then as now, in dark, sparkling eyes, piquant 
features, a comfortable account at the banker's, and a 
family tree of respectable proportions. Thus Mistress 
Molly became an important personage from the year of 
her birth. As the seasons passed quickly onward, the 
people of Dover began to predict that she would soon 
blossom into a belle who would not long remain in a 
state of single blessedness. Meanwhile the young lady 
herself was receiving what was then considered a 
finished feminine education, albeit hardly a curriculum 
up to the sterner standards of Vassar and Bryn Mawr. 
She took prodigiously to the French language, and, pos- 
sibly, might be caught sitting up late at night en- 
dangering her pretty black eyes by reading some for- 
bidden novel, or a "modish" play. So far as novel- 
reading by stealth is concerned, it is agreed that human 
nature never changes. Girls of fifteen still have a liking 

88 



A BELLE OF DELAWARE 

for some interdicted romance, although they no longer 
weep over the woes of an Amelia or a Clarissa Harlowe. 

At the age of fourteen Mary Vining lost her father, 
and we find her writing a quaint, woe-begone letter to 
one of her cousins. "How vain," she says, "is it to 
place our affection upon anything in this world. One 
moment, perhaps, happy in the best of parents; the next, 
a poor, destitute orphan. Orphan! Let me recall that 
word. I have yet one of the best of parents, and one 
who is deserving of all my love and duty." She breaks 
off for a second to give directions about some "very 
good green tea" to be used " while Mr. Chew is down," 
and concludes with the "sincerest prayer to yon 
Heaven " for her cousin's happiness — " if there is such a 
thing on earth." ^ 

The sentiment of the letter is so old-fashioned, so 
characteristic of the period, that one can almost see the 
child as she bedews the paper with her tears, then slowly 
blots it with the inevitable sand, and wonders — if Mr. 
Chew will like the green tea. 

Mary Vining dries her dark eyes, as any other healthy, 
buoyant girl would, and begins to wonder, as do many of 
her elders, what will come of the fast-increasing quarrel 
between Great Britain and her stiff-necked colonies. 
She is growing prettier all the time; admirers are already 

1 Vide an article on Miss Vining by Mrs. Henry G. Banning, in the 
American Historical Register, July, 1895. ^^' George Hazlehurst hat 
likewise written gracefully of our heroine. 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

in evidence; when they are not discussing the "detesta- 
ble tyranny " of his Majesty, King George, they are laud- 
ing the regularity of the young lady's nose, or the charm 
of her smile, j Next the Revolution, which has been 
smouldering for so long, breaks out into fierce blaze; the 
battle of Bunker Hill is fought, and bravely, too; events 
follow quick and fast. At last the delegates to the Con- 
tinental Congress at Philadelphia risk their lives and for- 
tunes by adopting the Declaration of Independence. 
"Let us hang together," slyly observes Benjamin Frank- 
lin, as they consider the document, " or else assuredly 
we will hang separately." 

One of these delegates, who enters importantly into 
the life of Miss Vining, is Caesar Rodney, of Delaware. 
Many of us have heard the story of how Rodney, when 
hastily summoned to Philadelphia to cast his vote for the 
Declaration, rode like mad to that city, partly in a driving 
rain-storm, all the way from his country place near 
Dover. Some of us have read Brooks's poem, wherein 
that ride will no doubt be followed with interest by 
many future generations : 

" In that soft mid-land where the breezes bear 
The North and South on the genial air, 
Through the county of Kent, on affairs of state, 
Rode Caesar Rodney, the delegate. 

" Burly and big, and bold and bluff. 
In his three-cornered hat and coat of snuff, 
A foe to King George and the English state 
Was Caesar Rodney, the delegate. 
90 



A BELLE OF DELAWARE 

" Into Dover village he rode apace, 
And his kinsfolk knew, from his anxious face, 
It was matter grave that brought him there. 
To the counties three on the Delaware. 



" Comes a rider swift on a panting bay ; 
• Ho, Rodney, ho ! You must save the day. 

For the Congress halts at a deed so great, 

And your vote alone may decide its fate.' 

" Answered Rodney, then : ' I will ride with speed ; 
It is Liberty's stress ; it is Freedom's need. 
When stands it ? ' * To-night ! Not a moment to spare, 
But ride like the wind from the Delaware ! ' 

" « Ho, saddle the black ! I've but half a day. 
And the Congress sits eighty miles away — 
But I'll be in time, if God grants me grace. 
To shake my fist in King George's face.' 

« He is up, he is off, and the black horse flies 
On the northward road ere the ' God-speed ' dies; 
It is gallop and spur as the leagues they clear. 
And the clustering mile-stones move a-rear. 

****** 
" It is seven ; the horse-boat, broad of beam. 
At the Schuylkill ferry crawls over the stream — 
And at seven-fifteen by the Rittenhouse clock, 
He flings his rein to the tavern jock. 

" The Congress is met ; the debate's begun, 
And Liberty lags for the vote of one — 
Wlien into the hall, not a moment late, 
Walks Caesar Rodney, the delegate. 

" Not a moment late ! and that half-day's ride 
Forwards the world with a mighty stride ; 
For the act was passed : ere the midnight stroke 
O'er the Quaker City its echoes woke." 
91 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

It is pleasant to note, in this iconoclastic age, that the 
old Rodney house, from which the delegate began his 
famous ride, is still to be seen, several miles back of 
Dover. It stands near the fine mansion once owned by 
John Dickinson. 

Caesar Rodney, as we find him at this critical time in 
our history, is a genial bachelor with vast patriotism and 
a pleasant wit. He has had, so goes the gossip, an un- 
happy love affair with another Mary Vining, an aunt of 
our heroine. The elder lady has given him the proverbial 
mitten and married a clergyman. She survives this mar- 
riage but a few months, and Caesar Rodney is left to 
mourn her unto his life's end, as he will, and to die, as 
he has lived, without a wife. " Molly, I love you from 
my soul," he once wrote to her, before the clergyman 
had appeared on the scene. He doubtless cherished this 
fond sentiment long after his rival was left a widower. 

The Mary Vining of our sketch was a cousin of Rod- 
ney's, and he saw in her grace and beauty much to remind 
him of the dead aunt. Thus, when the statesman was 
elected governor of Delaware during the darkest days of 
the war, he was glad to have his house in Wilmington 
presided over by the fascinating niece. Into this house 
(later known as No. 606 Market Street) came the Marquis 
de Lafayette, who ever cherished for her a sort of fervent 
but respectful admiration. He was a married man, was 
the Marquis, and his attention was decorous. Many an- 
other French officer there found, in the charm and the 

92 



A BELLE OF DELAWARE 

conversational abilities of the young Delawarian, quali- 
ties which he had not dreamed could exist in any woman 
outside of the court of Queen Marie Antoinette. More 
than one of the visitors laid his fortune — if he had any — 
and his fluttering heart at the feet of Miss Vining; but 
she laughed them off with a good-nature that took away 
half the sting from the refusals. We can see her as she 
replies gayly, when asked why she is so obdurate: " Ad- 
miration of the world is spoiling me. I fear I could not 
content myself with the admiration of one." We can 
hear her, too, when she comes radiantly into Caesar Rod- 
ney's dining-room as some officers, through with their 
Madeira, have crowded to the eastern window to watch 
the placid waters of Christiana Creek. 

" Gentlemen," she cries, first in French and then in 
English, "that lovely stream moving languidly amid its 
green banks always reminds me of a beautiful coquette, 
now coming here, now turning there, in playful wayward- 
ness." She turns her head, gives a pretty swirl to her 
fan, and smiles roguishly. The gentlemen are enchanted. 
No need to ask them who is the real coquette; it is not 
the innocent Christiana. Again, she enters the drawing- 
room where one of her cousins, a little boy, is studying 
Latin by the open fire. She is dressed for a ball, and as 
she goes up to a mirror, and looks approvingly at her re- 
flection, the young student casts upon her a glance of in- 
voluntary admiration. "Come here, you little rogue," 
she commands imperiously, "and you shall kiss my 

93 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

hand." But the boy, overcome by a sudden bashfulness, 
draws back. "You should be glad to do it," laughs the 
girl, and she quotes a line from Antony and Cleopatra : 

" A hand that kings have lipped." 

The boy, in his confusion, says nothing. In after 
years he regrets his want of gallantry, and recalls Mary 
Vining as she stood before him as a " beautiful picture." 
Had she lived in England, in the days of the Spectator, 
Addison or Dick Steele would surely have enshrined her 
in some immortal essay. 
^ It was in the cellar of Rodney's house that Lafayette 
I stored some of the precious gold coin which he had 
r brought from France. Rodney's cousin was a woman, 
but she never told the secret. When the Marquis re- 
turned home to France he was not slow to speak of the 
attractions of Miss Vining, and it is related that Marie 
Antoinette, hearing of the American's beauty, sent her 
word that there would always be a warm welcome for 
her at the court of the Tuilleries, either as a visitor or as a 
maid of honor. 

But Mary Vining did more than turn the heads of the 
French, the allies of her countrymen. She even won the 
heart — who shall dare say intentionally ? — of a British of- 
ficer who risked court-martial, dishonor, everything, to 
get one look at her, many weeks after she had refused 
him. It was in the spring of 1778, just before the army 

of the invaders was to evacuate Philadelphia. The 

04 



A BELLE OF DELAWARE 



officer, who held a command therein, determined to 
see Miss Vining once again. Perhaps, as he fondly 
thought, she would not always hold oat against him. 
So he smuggled himself through the lines one after- 
noon, mounted a horse, and rode off to Wilmington at 
breakneck speed straight into the enemy's country. It 
was a desperate thing to do. Discovery of his absence 
by the British meant disgrace; discovery by the Ameri- 
cans along his route meant arrest, and possibly execution 
as a spy; but young blood is not to be restrained by such 
thoughts. So the officer sped on to Wilmington, in some 
effective disguise, and reached the home of Caesar Rod- 
ney, one of his own country's bitterest foes, late in the 
evening. Who shall say what dangers he encountered 
before he stood before Mary Vining ? One's imagination 
can picture a scene worthy of a Revolutionary novel. 
All we know is that the impetuous Briton got only a 
stern refusal for his pains. After escaping from Wil- 
mington, perhaps through the good-natured connivance 
of the obstinate girl, he succeeded in getting back to 
Philadelphia. Miss Vining never heard of any trouble 
coming to him through this escapade, so it may be in- 
ferred that his rashness met with no punishment. Let us 
hope that he survived the war, to reach England in 

safety. 

The years glided on, as the Revolution triumphed and 
the sturdy colonies, released from British aggression, 
emerged proudly into the arena of the nations. Wash- 



95 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 



ington was now President of the United States of Amer- 
ica. In the meantime Miss Vining retained her beauty 
and no small part of her youthful bloom, and, although 
she was getting dangerously near the middle-aged period 
of forty, appeared to be as charming as ever. So, at 
least, thought General Anthony Wayne, now a widower, 
for he fell desperately in love with Mary Vining, \\\ his 
impetuous way, and was as successful with her, in fol- 
lowing the tender passion, as he had been in the more 
warlike pursuit of charging an enemy. It is even hinted 
that before his first marriage he had sighed, as only an 
eighteenth-century lover could sigh, for the Wilmington 
belle, but that he had not then made any impression on 
her adamantine heart. Be that as it may, his middle- 
aged love-making was more fortunate, and Miss Vining, 
who had refused many a French cavalier, said "yes" to 
this daring American democrat. 

"Can it be true," asked Mrs. Cadwalader, widow of 
the Philadelphia General, "that Miss Vining is engaged 
to General Wayne? Can one so refined marry this 
coarse soldier? True, he is brave, wonderfully brave, 
and ' none but the brave deserve the fair.' " 

Yet Wayne was something more than a "coarse 
soldier." Nor was he the "Mad" Anthony which some 
chroniclers would have us believe. True, he had not the 
manners of a courtier, but he had a stout heart and a 
rough-diamond character which make him stand out as 
one of the most picturesque figures in the annals of the 



96 



A BELLE OF DELAWARE 

olden time. It was to Miss Vining that the General cried, 
as he jumped excitedly from his chair, after hearing her 
speak of the crime of a traitor: "Madame, had 1 been 
present I would have suicided him ! " And we all know 
the anecdote, which deserves to be true, even if it is not, 
of how Wayne said to Washington: " I am not only 

willing to storm Stony Point, General, but I'll storm 

if you will only plan it." Washington is reported to 
have answered, with just the suspicion of a twinkle in 
his blue-gray eyes: "Hadn't we better try Stony Point 
first?" 

There is still in existence a rare old set of India china 
which was to have been the wedding gift of General 
Wayne to his intended bride, but he was not destined to 
see it in use. For "Mad" Anthony died at Presque Isle, 
on Lake Erie, in the middle of December, 1796, of the un- 
romantic complaint of gout of the stomach. Mary Vining 
put on mourning and gave up her old gay life, and all the 
flattery which had been given her as an offering of 
incense. Thus ended her last romance. A middle-aged 
romance, says the cynic. Yes, but who of us with the 
crow's-feet and whitening hair shall dare to say that there 
is any age-limit to affairs of the heart ? 

Had Miss Vining consulted the dramatic proprieties, as 

observed by the old-fashioned novelists before alluded to, 

she would have died then and there, in good orthodox 

fashion. But she went on living for another quarter of a 

century, as old friends passed from the world, beauty 

97 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

fell away, and poverty came to her. Herein was the 
real tragedy of her life. Look at a woman once rich, 
courted, beautiful; now sadly aged, with few friends 
left, and in such sore financial straits that she is obliged 
to turn boarding-house keeper. Where is the romance 
in serving tea to strangers, or showing Abigail or Dorcas 
how to make the beds ? 

Yet Mistress Vining was a gentlewoman to the end, 
and there always remained about her a reflection of her 
past glory. Lafayette corresponded with her until her 
death, while no distinguished foreigner ever passed 
through Delaware without leaving a card at this lady's 
house — boarders or no boarders. We get more than 
one pathetic glimpse of the declining days of Miss 
Vining. They show us that something of her old spirit 
(or shall we call it pardonable feminine vanity ?) still 
clung to her, like a phantom of the realities of the long- 
ago. Her fine brown hair never whitened, nor did the 
dark eyes lose their youthful sparkle, but Father Time un- 
gallantly put his impress on her face, and the once 
willowy form began to bend. So the poor lady was fain 
to receive her friends in a darkened room, to put her 
handkerchief before her mouth, hiding the now decrepit 
teeth over which the beaux had once raved, and to 
muffle her features in a great veil when she appeared 
upon the street. It is only the "new woman" who can 
stand the loss of beauty with equanimity — and the " new 

woman " seldom has any to lose. 

98 



A BELLE OF DELAWARE 

It was rarely, indeed, that the recluse left her home in 
Wilmington and those prosaic boarders. One evening 
the congregation of Old Swedes' Church was startled to 
see her moving up the aisle, leaning gracefully on the 
arm of a servant. There were many whispers and 
nudges from the assembled worshipers. "There goes 
Miss Vining," was the excited, half stifled comment 
which passed among them like a ripple. She sat down 
in a front pew, with the air of a dethroned queen, and 
listened to the service. No one could see her face. Only 
the back of her mourning gown and a great black poke 
bonnet were visible. " We shall get a look at her when 
she comes down the aisle," thought the congregation, be- 
tween the prayers. But Miss Vining had no intention 
that people should say of her: "Poor thing! How 
faded! " The service ended; the worshipers craned their 
necks, as she came down the aisle with the servant, in 
order to catch one glimpse of the once distinguished 
beauty. But they were disappointed, for her face was 
almost completely hidden by a cap with a wonderfully 
wide ruffle. "A flash from dark eyes, and a view, in 
deep shadow, of the tip of her nose and chin," were the 
only things apparent. She walked quickly home to her 
house on Kennet Pike, where is now the corner of Tenth 
and Market Streets. 

So the world moved on prosaically for Mary Vining 
until a day in the early spring of 1821, when she was 
laid to rest in Old Swedes' churchyard. Six girls acted 
.LoFC. 99 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

as pallbearers, as if to show that May could pay one 
final tribute to December. Not one of them had 
ever looked upon her face. As the more elderly 
mourners left the burying-ground, after hearing the 
solemn "dust to dust" of the clergyman, they gossiped 
softly of the days when the dead woman had seemed all 
life, and youth, and hope. Before the service the six 
pallbearers had giggled among themselves. They saw 
not the tragedy of the life just closed. They did not un- 
derstand, naturally enough, how old age, and wrinkles, 
and disappointments, could be realities. To them the 
service meant only another old lady being buried in the 
churchyard; nothing more. 



100 



A DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE 



V 
A DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE 

IT was in the year 1760 when Thomas Jefferson, a 
stripling of seventeen, "tall, raw-boned, freckled 
and sandy-haired," as Parton described him, came 
from western Virginia to enter the College of William 
and Mary, at Williamsburg. In spite of his large feet 
and hands, thick wrists and prominent cheek-bones, he 
was a bright, attractive youth, "as straight as a gun- 
barrel sinewy and strong, with that alertness of move- 
ment which comes of easy familiarity with saddle, gun, 
canoe, minuet, and contra-dance,— that sure, elastic tread, 
and ease of bearing, which we still observe in country- 
bred lads who have been exempt from the ruder toils 
of agriculture, while enjoying in full measure the free- 
dom and the sports of the country." His teeth were 
faultless, and his hazel-gray eyes indicated a gentle 
character and a sympathetic yet keenly analytic mind. 

"Tom" Jefferson, through the death of his father, had 
already become the head of his family, and the virtual 
owner of the "Shadwell Farm," in the mountains a 
hundred and fifty miles to the northwest of quaint 
Williamsburg. He was of that sturdy, honest yeoman 
stock which has given so many fine specimens of man- 

103 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

hood to the cause of American patriotism, and there was 
a deal of shrewd, energetic Welsh blood coursing 
through his veins. The young student at William and 
Mary had, in fact, no pretensions to aristocracy, unless 
it might be from his good mother's side of the house. 
She was the daughter of Isham Randolph, an old-time 
Virginia lord of the manor, who owned an immense 
tobacco plantation on the River James, and who thought, 
no doubt, that when he allowed his seventeen-year-old 
daughter to marry Peter Jefferson, an humble land- 
surveyor, he was acting with a fine show of condescen- 
sion. Old Randolph lived in true manorial style in his 
colonial mansion, keeping a hundred servants or more, 
so that his daughter. Mistress Jefferson, never forgot the 
wealth and the breeding of her father. Perhaps that is 
why her son Thomas, play he the democrat as he did in 
after life, could never quite convince people that his 
studied carelessness of dress and an affectation of equally 
careless manners were altogether sincere. Man never for- 
gets his genealogy. 

At the time that young Jefferson reached Williamsburg 
the town was nothing more than a straggling village of 
one long street, with the Capitol of Virginia at one end, 
the College at the other, and a ten-acre square, on which 
were erected certain public buildings, in the middle. It 
was not a very impressive town, according to our 
modern ideas; yet it was considered in the old days, 
when our ancestors paid their allegiance to King George 

104 



A DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE 

III, as a very gay resort. With its one thousand inhab- 
itants, many of whom were persons of quality, it was said 
to be the "centre of taste, fashion and refinement." In 
the winter, when the Virginia Assembly was in session 
there, Williamsburg was crowded with the gentry of the 
colony, and frequent were the balls and routs at which 
well-dressed cavaliers and richly habited ladies 
(whose costumes had been imported from London) 
joined in the country dance or the more stately minuet. 
On a clear day the one street echoed with the sound of 
wheels and the cracking of whips, as the families of the 
planters dashed past in handsome coaches (likewise im- 
ported from London), drawn by four or six stout horses. 
The Capitol itself was a "light and airy structure" as 
young Master Jefferson thought it; the "palace" of the 
Governor of the Colony was large, comfortable, and ir- 
retrievably ugly, and the College buildings presented a 
plain but respectable appearance. If we add to these 
public institutions a number of private houses, built of 
wood and shingles, and the necessary accompaniment of 
negro hovels, we have the fair Virginian capital for the 
sight of which so many maidens of the Old Dominion 
sighed. For to the provincial lass who chanced to live 
South of Maryland, Williamsburg was the same sort of 
social Paradise that New York or Paris now seems to the 
girl who inhabits some prairie city far west of the Alle- 
ghany Mountains. 
William and Mary College was then anything but an 

105 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

ideal fountain of learning. Its curriculum was poor, and 
some of the professors led lives that would appear to us 
utterly inconsistent with their intellectual work. They 
were, for the most part, gentlemen of sporting pro- 
clivity, who liked their dogs, their horses, and their wine 
far better than they did their avowed mission of teaching. 
If the master of Shadwell managed to receive learning 
from this Alma Mater, despite the influence of so many 
dissolute teachers, it was because of the presence in the 
faculty of a certain Scotchman, the professor of mathe- 
matics, who took a great fancy to Thomas and incited 
him to study as few other students of the College troubled 
themselves to do. And so the youth worked hard, drink- 
ing in all sorts of education, from mathematics, which he 
called "the passion of his life," to the irreligious disser- 
tations of the French philosophers, Voltaire and the rest, 
whose views were fast becoming fashionable in the 
English-speaking world. He read law, too, and cast 
many a glance at "Coke on Littleton," as he fondly 
dreamed of a great future for himself as a distinguished 
colonial jurist. No thought yet of a Declaration of In- 
dependence. 

But as we look at this lank, freckle-faced youth, who 
pores over his figures and old Littleton, do we merely 
see in him the interested student, with no more heart 
than that possessed by a bookworm? Not a bit of it! 
The heart that beats under Master Tom's waistcoat is going 
at a furious rate of speed whenever he thinks— not of 

106 



A DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE 

Littleton, but of a certain lovely young lady! For the 
hero who will live to write the immortal Declaration of 
Independence, and view life and humanity with a phil- 
osophical serenity is as hopelessly in love as ever was 
any cavalier of old. It is the first time, too, that the 
malady has afflicted him. It goes all the harder with him 
in consequence. 

And who is the young lady ? Why, Miss Rebecca 
Burwell, a strikingly beautiful Virginian of good family 
and fair expectations. But young Jefferson cares nothing 
for her expectations. He only knows that he loves her 
as man never loved woman before — of course — and that 
she has the sweetest face he has ever gazed upon. Then 
what exquisite grace! How charmingly does she tread 
the minuet in the dancing room of the Raleigh Tavern. 
Some of the Williamsburgers, base cynics that they are, 
whisper that Miss Burwell's attractions are all in her face 
and figure; that she is not mentally brilliant; that she 
has not one thousandth part of the brain of Master Tom. 
But what cares the latter for all that ? When a lover is 
filled with visions of his first love he thinks of the glance 
of her eye, the brightness of her smile, the curve of her 
mouth — of anything, in fine, save the powers of her 
mind. There is never any consideration of intellectuality 
in our youthful experience with love. Young Cupid 
does not go about searching for blue-stockings. The 
bachelor of fifty may do that if he so desires, but the lad 
of seventeen — never. 

107 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

• We are not surprised that the time passes so pleasantly 
for the student. No wonder that he ends by thinking 
Williamsburg a bewitching spot. The longer he stays 
there the more he can see of Rebecca. But at last (he 
wonders how he can live afterwards) he must end his 
college days at William and Mary, and return to his 
home. It is the Christmas season of 1762, when, with a 
sad heart, he departs from Williamsburg. When will he 
see Rebecca again ? Does she love him ? Dare he ask 
her? These are some of the questions that torment him 
with a sort of pleasant bitterness as he travels home- 
ward. The landscape is bleak enough, but he feels 
bleaker himself than all the snow-covered hills of 
Virginia. He does his best, when visiting at the house of 
a friend on his way to Shadwell, to cultivate a Christmas 
joy, and to be a truly gay participant in the festivities of 
the season. He tries to laugh and talk and plays his 
violin while the young women dance some new minuet- 
figures. Alas, the sweet creatures only remind him of the 
absent Mistress Burwell and he can but sigh when he 
should be merry. He is so dreary that he cannot even 
read the once admired "Coke on Littleton." He actually 
writes to John Page, a college friend, that Coke should be 
consigned to the tender mercies of His Most Satanic 
Majesty. Surely the lover, " sighing like furnace," can 
have no affinity with the dry crotchets of prosaic law. 

As if to increase his gloom at this season of cheer, a 
"watch-paper," which Rebecca has cut and painted for 

108 



A DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE 

him, is ruined by the rain. While he sleeps at night, 
dreaming, we may venture to fancy, of the absent one, 
the rain comes in through window or crevice, and when 
he awakes in the morning he finds his timepiece swim- 
ming in a pool of water. As he writes pathetically to 
John Page: "The subtle particles of the water with 
which the case was filled, had, by their penetration, so 
overcome the cohesion of the particles of the paper of 
which my dear picture and watch-paper were composed, 
that, in attempting to take them out to dry them— good 
.God ! Mens horret referre ! — my fingers gave them such 
a rent as I fear / never shall get over." Had there been 
an earthquake, in which half the world had crumbled 
away, Thomas Jefferson could not have been more hor- 
rified. What is the destruction of half the universe to 
the destruction of a watch-paper suggesting the lovely 
face of Rebecca Burwell ? He continues: "And now, 
although the picture may be defaced, there is so lively an 
image of her imprinted in my mind, that I shall think of 
her too often, 1 fear, for my peace of mind, and too often, 
I am sure, to get through old Coke this winter." Old 
Coke, forsooth. 

Is Thomas Jefferson, future statesman and President of 
the United States, actually love-sick? Yes; there is no 
denying the truth when the loss of a watch-paper will 
cause a young fellow such exquisite agony. Has there 
never been a time, gentle reader, when you were ill in the 
same way ? 

109 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

Soon after Christmas Jefferson is home again. Once 
that the pleasure of greeting relatives is over he begins to 
get very much bored. It cannot be otherwise when he 
thinks of Rebecca — his " Belinda" as he classically calls 
her — and rails at an unkind Fate which keeps him so far 
away from Williamsburg. A lover may nurse a hope- 
less passion and derive some satisfaction from it if he is 
able continually to gaze upon the adored one. But when 
many a mile separates him from her, and he knows not 
who may be whispering sweet nothings in the girl's ear, 
and trying to win her away — oh, that is hard to bear. 
So, at least, it seems to this young man. "Belinda!" 
"Belinda!" That is his one thought. It is no wonder, 
therefore, that life on the farm, or the reading of Coke, 
seems empty mockery. "All things here," he writes 
wearily to John Page, "appear to me to trudge on in one 
and the same round: we rise in the morning that we 
may eat breakfast, dinner, and supper, and go to bed 
again that we may get up the next morning and do the 
same; so that you never saw two peas more alike than 
our yesterday and to-day." 

As the stupid days roll on, how desperate does his 
future seem to be, at least to himself. While he is pre- 
tending to study law in this wilderness some gay buck 
far away in Williamsburg may be asking for the hand of 
" Belinda," and, perhaps, receiving it. What a horrible 
thought! Poor Thomas! " A jury of lovers would have 

pronounced his situation serious in the extreme. He was 

no 



A DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE 

enamored of a beauty and an heiress: she in the full 
lustre of her charms; he a youth not twenty, of small 
estate heavily burdened, reading the elementary book of 
a profession requiring years of preparation. . . . 
Would she wait ? Could he ask her to wait ? She must 
love him very much to do that and he did not know that 
she loved him at all." 

The more the lover thought things over the more con- 
fused he became. Sometimes he determined to go as 
fast as a horse could take him straight to Williamsburg, 
there to ask Miss Burwell two pointed questions: " Do 
you love me?" "Will you wait for me?" Then he 
would say to himself: "But if she were to reject me? 
Then I should be ten times more wretched than ever! " 
Sometimes he would suggest to John Page the propriety 
of their making a tour of Europe, so that he might learn 
to forget the provoking " Belinda." Page, too, happened 
to be in love with another charmer, and Jefferson thought 
the trip might do him good likewise. But in the end 
there was no journey to foreign lands. For weeks the 
distraught swain remains on the Shadwell estate, torn 
with contending emotions, as he alternately studies 
"Coke on Littleton" and thinks of "Belinda." There 
are times when he resolves to be resigned to the worst, 
which is a possible refusal from Miss Burwell, and to 
cultivate "a perfect resignation to the Divine Will." He 
will "consider that whatever does happen must happen, 

and that by our uneasiness we cannot prevent the blow 

111 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

before it does fall, but we may add to its force after it 
has fallen." In short, he hopes to have a "pious and 
unshaken resignation." These are good words for a 
man who will, in later life, be branded as an infidel by 
some of his contemporaries. 

At last — joyous chance — there comes an opportunity 
when Thomas Jefferson can once more see "Belinda" 
face to face. How his poor heart throbs at the thought! 
He has gone to Williamsburg to attend the sessions of 
the General Court, like a dutiful law-student (possibly 
also as an ardent lover). At a ball in the Raleigh Tavern 
he meets the siren who, we may shrewdly suspect, has 
been enjoying herself these many moons without giving 
more than a passing thought to poor Tom. There are 
all sorts of dances at the ball, and we can see the shy 
glance of the lover as he touches the hand of pretty Re- 
becca Burwell when the two glide through the stately 
figures of a minuet. How the color must come and 
go in that freckled, expressive face of his. How im- 
passive is the look that comes from the beautiful eyes of 
" Belinda." Will the dancing never stop, so that he may 
take the girl into some convenient corner, there to pour 
into her ears his hopes, fears, and all the sufferings of 
the past months? What a mockery, he must think, is 
all this merrymaking when one man's heart is nigh to 
breaking. 

After a while there is a lull in the dancing. Happy 

yet fearful moment! He leads Mistress Burwell to a 

112 



A DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE 

place away from the dancers. Now he will tell her all, 
and ask her the one question that is worth the asking. 
But what a ghastly failure he makes of it, to be sure. 
He tries to say something eloquent, yet only manages to 
stammer a few broken sentences, relieved by horrible 
pauses, and he feels, as a sickening shudder runs up and 
down his spine, that he is making a very great fool of 
himself. "Belinda" looks at him helplessly. She can 
neither accept nor refuse a man who has not the nerve 
to put his proposal into plain English. He leads her 
back, at last, to the dancers. Timidity has conquered 
the man who, in a few years, will not hesitate to defy all 
the might and power of tyrannical England. 

In a few days he tries again. His courage will not 
enable him to ask the lady outright whether she will be 
his wife, but he circles around the subject, and hints that 
at some future time he will ask for her hand. How can 
the poor girl say "Yes" to such a hint, even if she is 
anxious so to do.^ And if she wants to say "No," 
merely to put the boy out of his misery as soon as pos- 
sible, she must also keep silent, in the face of so much 
bashfulness and indirection. Yet there is that in her 
manner which tells Jefferson that all his longing and 
heart-sickness have been in vain. He finds, at last, that 
he is too late; the heart of Rebecca Burwell has been 
given to another. Fool that he was, thinks Tom to him- 
self. Perhaps, had he hastened to Williamsburg before 
this, he might have ousted the successful rival; but noth- 

113 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

ing can prevent him now from considering himself the 
most miserable man in all the wide world. He can 
never again look into a woman's face with pleasure. 
His future has nothing more in store for him. His life is 
a hopeless, forlorn wreck. He is exactly what many 
another young fellow before and since has considered 
himself to be. 

A few months after the ball at the Raleigh Tavern 
Miss Rebecca Burwell is married to the more favored 
suitor and Thomas is left heart-broken. John Page, who 
has likewise had his own love affair, is jilted by another 
cruel maiden. Mr. Page, like a true philosopher, at once 
begins upon a new flirtation. Jefferson, however, can 
not think of such inconstancy. He vows that his heart 
is "dead to love forever." Williamsburg no longer has 
for him the slightest charm. He hates the sight of it so 
much that he calls it " Devilsburg," 

Yet it remained for Jefferson, like thousands of other 
hapless swains, to find out that first loves are by no 
means fatal maladies. He went on studying law, and 
woke up, one fine morning, to discover that the load 
upon his bruised heart had quite gone. It was still hard 
to think of "Belinda" without tender regret, yet the 
world did not seem desolate any more, and the old high 
ambitions, which had once surged so manfully in his 
breast, began to reappear. This was the first sign of a 
return to normal conditions. After a time he could even 
think of the false one without a tremor. Then, a little 

114 



A DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE 

later, he began to dance at other people's weddings with 
smiling face, and perhaps encountered among the guests, 
and without a sigh of regret, the sweet features of 
" Belinda." 

It was not long ere Jefferson began to take pleasure in 
assuming the simple duties of a country gentleman. He 
became a justice of the peace and a vestryman of his 
parish. These were positions which, had he still been a 
romantic swain, he would have scorned to seek. 
Furthermore, he settled down into a practical farmer 
with as much zest as if he had never known anything 
about Cupid, and he put his whole heart into the work. 
He went on studying law, was finally admitted to the 
bar, and took interest, also, in that profession. Then he 
became a member of the Virginia Legislature. Still he 
remained a bachelor. Had his experience with " Be- 
linda " given him a distaste for matrimony ? No doubt 
that question was often asked in the part of Virginia 
where he was already so well known and so deeply re- 
spected. He had, indeed, once said to John Page that if 
Rebecca Burwell refused him he would never offer him- 
self to another. 

But the day came when Thomas Jefferson fell in love 
for a second time, and more successfully. Perhaps it 
was a quieter passion than the one he had had for "Be- 
linda," and therefore perhaps deeper as well, for there 
was no denying the sincerity of his love for Mistress 
Martha Skelton, a beautiful widow of twenty-two, child- 

115 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

less, and the daughter of his friend and fellow-lawyer, 
John Wayles. She was fond of music; so was Jeffer- 
son. She played delightfully on the spinet; he had a 
pretty skill with the violin. They played together when 
Jefferson would go over to visit her father on his planta- 
tion, "The Forest," and played so well together that it 
was finally agreed they might prove equally harmonious 
in a lifelong duet. The young Virginian, who had now 
developed into a good-looking man, and had lost the 
rawness of his William and Mary days, proposed with 
all necessary gallantry. He was duly accepted. On 
New Year's Day of 1772, the two were married at "The 
Forest," with the assistance of several clergymen and an 
abundance of music. Soon afterwards they started out, by 
way of a honeymoon, on a wintry trip to Monticello, the 
new home of the groom. As they proceeded on their 
journey towards the mountains the snow increased, until 
their carriage could no longer move. Finally they had to 
leave the coach in a drift, and mount the horses. When, 
at last, they reached Monticello, it was late at night, cold 
and dreary, and all the servants had gone to bed. The 
fires were out; the inside of the new house was dismal 
and freezing. But Love laughs at such trifles. They 
burst open the door and rekindled the fires, and thus, 
with great good humor, their housekeeping began. 

Mrs. Jefferson is described as a radiant creature, with 
pretty coloring and expressive features, a great mass of 
auburn hair, and a graceful figure and deportment. She 

116 



A DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE 

was a woman of mind, and, it must be confessed, far 
more fit to be a constant companion for her husband than 
would have been the elusive " Belinda." She was fond 
of literature, which was something that most Virginia 
ladies then cared little about, and her voice was pleasant 
to listen to as she accompanied herself on the spinet or 
harpsichord. The good lady lived until 1782, when she 
died four months after giving birth to her sixth child. 
As she was sinking she solemnly asked her husband 
never to marry again, for the sake of their children. He 
gave her the promise, and kept it. He had loved her 
well: when she was gone he was almost crazed. He 
staggered from the room into his library, where he 
fainted. For a time it was feared that he, too, had 
passed away. The family placed his apparently in- 
animate body on a cot. In a few minutes the stricken 
man revived, only to go off the same night into a perfect 
frenzy of grief. For three weeks he stayed in one room, 
attended by his little daughter, Martha. Day and night 
he would walk up and down, up and down, like a caged 
lion. When, at last, he emerged from his room it was 
to roam about the country, like some desolate spirit who 
could never know happiness more. Time finally healed 
the wound, and new attention to public duties brought 
solace and gradual contentment. But the woman whose 
death could cause such despair must have been worthy 
the love of such a man. 
Forgotten Rebecca Burwell ! You were, after all, only 

117 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

an example of the truth that a man's first love is an ill- 
ness which may seem fatal but which often only turns 
out to be a passing indisposition. Jefferson lived to look 
back smilingly at his one-time passion. "Belinda" 
became to him nothing save a shadow. Yet we wonder 
if, when life was nearly spent and the old man sat by 
the fire in his library at Monticello, he ever called to 
mind the old days in Williamsburg. Perhaps in thought 
he grew young once more and saw Rebecca's face 
shining at him from the embers. 



m 



CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID 



VI 
CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID 

IT was in the early thirties of the eighteenth century 
that there came to the good town of New York, to 
rule in due state as Governor of the whole colony, 
a certain Englishman by adoption and Irishman by birth, 
one Colonel William Cosby. The townsmen were already 
loyal to the English government, although many of them 
had the blood of the sturdy Dutch in their veins, and it 
might be supposed that they would be ready to extend a 
cordial welcome to the new functionary. But as they 
had undergone unpleasant experiences with at least two 
of their Governors from England, the New Yorkers were 
wary. They remembered, for instance, the meteoric 
career of Edward Hyde, Lord Cornbury, who had come 
over to their town in 1702, and of whom weird stories 
were still told in tavern and drawing-room. Would 
Colonel Cosby prove to be a second Cornbury ? 

Lord Cornbury, who was a cousin of "good Queen 
Anne," through his relationship to her mother, was a 
worthless profligate, heavily burdened with debt. He 
was sent over to America to retrieve his fortunes, at the 
expense, of course, of the unfortunate people of Man- 
hattan Island. His wife, who prided herself upon a 

181 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

beautiful ear (which had been fair enough, she said, to 
make my Lord fall in love with her) had as lean a purse 
and as expensive habits as her aristocratic husband. 
Ostentation was her god, and while she may have affected 
to look down upon the good Dutch families of New York 
she was very anxious, notwithstanding, to impress them 
with the proper idea of her grandeur. But how is one to 
distil grandeur without the necessary ingredient of gold ? 
She was neither the first, nor the last, to ask herself this 
question. 

After thinking deeply upon the matter Lady Cornbury, 
who was never troubled in all her life by over-delicacy 
or conscientious scruple, hit upon an ingenious expedient. 
In the meantime, after her arrival in New York, she 
charmed "society," as we would now term it, by the ex- 
treme condescension of her manners. She and her noble 
husband seemed to vie one with the other in doing all they 
could to be gracious to their new subjects. In return for 
this politeness the great ladies of the town, among them 
Madame Van Courtlandt, treated them to a series of 
dinners, at which the Governor drank unlimited wine and 
professed himself greatly benefited and pleased by the 
vintages that were spread out before him on the 
hospitable boards. So far, so good. It began to look as 
if the sojourn of the couple was to resolve itself into a 
kind of political honeymoon, or a love-feast. 

But watch the cunning scheme of my Lady Cornbury. 

She soon announced that she was desirous, in order to 

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CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID 

give eclat to her position, to select from among the New 
York maidens a number of "ladies of honor," who were 
to reside with her in the Governor's mansion. Where- 
upon the daughters of the first families were thrown into 
a veritable flutter of pleasant anticipation. What joy! 
They had heard of queens who had maids of honor, and 
here was the relative of a queen who projected a minia- 
ture court of her own! The thought was dazzling. So 
the lucky girls who were invited, much to the envy of the 
unlucky ones, to reside with Lady Cornbury went into 
as great transports of delight as their somewhat phleg- 
matic dispositions would permit. They hastened to the 
gubernatorial residence to play their ornamental parts. 

The parts, alas, were not to be ornamental. The 
maids of honor soon found that their economical mistress 
was too poor to keep regular servants, and that they 
were expected to do all the menial work of the house, 
even to acting, on occasion, as cooks and scullions. 
Thus vanished all their visions of semi-regal splendor. 
Their one idea now was— to get away from my Lady 
Cornbury. 

That, however, was not an easy thing to do. My 
Lady, being a common, ill-bred shrew, was unwilling to 
part with domestics to whom she had to pay no wages. 
At the mere mention of departure she would sometimes 
pounce, with all the ferocity of a virago, upon the poor 
disappointed/r^M/^m5, and forbid them to leave the house. 
This system of forcible detention went on until it became 

123 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

necessary for the parents of the maids of honor to take 
them away in the very face of loud, vulgar protests from 
the lady. Then, after calling the retiring maids all sorts 
of hard names, she enticed other girls into her house. 
The newcomers, however, fared no better, and Lady 
Cornbury soon found that her ingenious scheme for 
saving the hire of servants had come to naught. From 
being the most popular woman in New York she quickly 
became the most unpopular of them all. 

The Governor, too, quickly descended from his high 
estate, and made of himself a public scandal. Once, 
after a drinking-bout, he dressed himself in his wife's 
clothes and paraded up and down the then rustic Broad- 
way. It was night, and the moon was out. So up- 
roarious did he wax that the officer of the watch arrested 
him as an intoxicated vagrant. The guard was "amazed 
beyond description when he found that his prisoner was 
none other than the Governor of the province, in a 
highly hilarious condition; and the watchman could 
scarcely be induced to release his Excellency, as he con- 
sidered it the duty of the watch to carry all prisoners to 
the guard-house, no matter what was their degree."^ 

No wonder that all the respectable people would have 
nothing more to do with the Governor and his wife. But 
Lady Cornbury, as shameless as she was impecunious, 
hit upon another expedient for swindling. She would 

• Vide Mrs. Van Rensselaer's attractive Goede Vrotiw of Mana-ka-ta, 
Smith's History of New York, etc. 

124 



CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID 

drive up in her handsome coach- to some prosperous- 
looking home, alight in great state, chat for a little time 
with the occupants, and then, with the assistance of a 
groom, carry away with her any ornament that she 
thought a bit pretty. The consequence was that the 
wives of the burghers began to fear the rattle of my 
Lady's carriage as they feared the plague. When they 
heard the familiar rolling of the wheels they would run 
hither and thither through the house, hiding anything that 
they thought might catch her fancy. It may be added 
that this noble thief would generally pawn the things she 
had thus secured from her loyal subjects. 

There must have been no end of rejoicing when her 
ladyship died several years later and was buried in the 
graveyard of Trinity Church with much pomp and 
pageantry. There must have been, too, many a cheerful 
face in evidence at that funeral. No doubt the under- 
taker looked melancholy. He had reason so to look; his 
bill for the interment of the lady would never be paid 
either by Lord Cornbury or by any one else. As for my 
Lord he was finally recalled to England by his cousin, 
Queen Anne, after having first been thrown into a New 
York jail for debt. 

There was another Royal Governor of whom the New 
Yorkers had rather curious recollections. He was 
Richard Coote, Earl of Bellomont, a dashing, but elderly 
cavalier who brought with him to New York, much 
against her will, a young and beautiful wife, of whom he 

125 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

was insanely jealous. The Countess of Bellomont was 
one of the greatest gamblers of her day, and extravagant, 
not to say dissolute enough to put many a high-living 
man of the early eighteenth century to the blush. She 
was not prepared, therefore, to find Manhattan very ex- 
citing under any circumstances. But what must have 
been her feelings when Lord Bellomont, fearing lest some 
of the young burghers of the island would fall in love 
with her, shut her up in the Governor's mansion, where 
she became little more than a prisoner within gilded bars. 
Poor lady! Perhaps she may have employed her solitude 
in atoning for all her past sins, but we are prone to be 
skeptical on that point. It was her lordly husband, by- 
the-way, who was a friend and patron of the notorious 
Captain Kidd, and who was suspected (no human being 
can now say whether justly or unjustly) of sharing some 
of the rich plunder which that enterprising New Yorker 
was wont to filch from the holds of unprotected English 
merchantmen. 

Is it any wonder, then, that when the long-suffering 
New Yorkers heard of the coming of Colonel William 
Cosby they should have wondered what manner of 
gentleman this new ruler might be ? They sought to 
learn all that they could about him. The knowledge 
thus obtained was not over-assuring. The Colonel was 
a polished Anglo-Irish swindler, who had been recalled 
from his Governorship of the Island of Minorca because 
of his peculations! Stealing, however, on the part of 

126 



CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID 

British officials was not considered mucii of a crime in 
those easy days when rank or influence protected many a 
rascal. It was the epoch of the great Robert Walpole, 
who took so cynical a view of the honesty of his country- 
men that he considered every Englishman "had his 
price." The real crime, if one stole public funds or 
government moneys, was in being found out. As that 
happened to be the crime of which poor Cosby was 
guilty, he was brought back to England — and soon 
rewarded by an appointment to the richer Governor- 
ship of New York. The townsmen shook their heads 
when they heard these things, and asked themselves 
if they were to be forced to undergo a second Lord 
Cornbury. 

After a time Colonel Cosby, accompanied by his wife 
and daughter, reaches the port of New York, The new 
Governor looks pompous, arrogant, self-important; there 
is a glint in his eyes which suggests a fellow who is on 
the search for gold. Madame Cosby, whose near rela- 
tionship to an Earl has not apparently added to her breed- 
ing, looks bored at the sight of the vulgar Americans 
who have turned out to greet the Colonel. She makes a 
mental resolution that she will have nothing to do with 
the women of New York, and that her one ambition will 
be the saving up of as much money as possible. Not a 
whit, she thinks, shall be spent in entertaining any of 
these stupid natives — and not one man among the lot 
shall be introduced to her daughter. That daughter's 

127 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

name is Eleanor. She is young and pretty: siie will 
soon be the heroine of a romance which will set the 
whole town agog. She is not so stiff as her mother, and, 
indeed, from her manner one might suppose that she 
would be quite glad to meet some of the young burghers. 
And when one regards her rosy cheeks and shining eyes 
it is plain that the aforesaid young burghers would be 
only too glad to respond. 

Who is the courtly gentleman who is bowing cere- 
moniously to the Governor, and making some very 
formal announcement ? It is Chief Justice Lewis Morris, 
who is informing Cosby that the Assembly of New York 
has voted to make him (for alleged services in London 
connected with the Sugar Bill) a present of seven hundred 
and fifty pounds sterling. It is a princely gift; but why 
does our friend the Governor frown ? Surely one gener- 
ally makes some sign of pleasure when one has seven 
hundred and fifty pounds as a gratuity in prospect. There 
must be something wrong, however, for the frown on 
the Governor's face only deepens. Perhaps he has not 
heard aright what the Chief Justice said. He may not 
understand that this money is intended for his own pri- 
vate purse. For — yes, " Gad zooks! " " Odds bodkins! " 
"Zounds!" The new Governor is swearing! Think of 
it! There must be a grave mistake. Yet listen. The 
Governor, after indulging in a few more choice expres- 
sions, begins to abuse the New Yorkers in round, set 
terms, because they have not made him a larger gift! 

128 



CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID 

Was ever such a piece of boorishness heard of this side 
of the water? The Chief Justice regards the rude 
swindler in veritable amazement. Colonel Morris is a 
gentleman; he cannot fathom how this English specimen 
of the porcine family can look decent men in the face 
after such an exhibition. And this is the man that King 
George II has sent over to govern some thousands of his 
loyal subjects! No wonder that before another half cen- 
tury has gone by the misruled Americans will have 
severed their allegiance to the British crown. 

The Governor himself is not a bit mortified by his exhi- 
bition of temper. He is coarse to the backbone, and he 
has, furthermore, the true British contempt for provin- 
cials. What are these countrified, half Dutch New 
Yorkers, that he should put on manners for them ? He 
will only play the gentleman when there is something to 
be gained by it. When he goes into a foreign country 
he will take with him the inestimable privilege of abu- 
sing the inhabitants. As for this paltry seven hundred 
and fifty pounds — bah! it is an absurdly small amount. 
The burghers are getting richer and richer day by day as 
trade increases. Let them treble the gift, at least, or 
multiply it as many times as possible. 

But hush! Colonel Morris is answering the Governor. 
Listen! Yes! He is telling Cosby what he thinks of 
him, and saying that in future he will have no dealings 
with the boor, saving on official business. At supper, 
the same evening, hundreds of tongues are repeating the 

129 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

manly speech of the Chief Justice and condemning the 
upstart Governor. 

The weeks roll on, as Cosby and his wife make 
themselves more and more obnoxious to the wisest peo- 
ple of New York. The one idea of the husband is to 
screw money out of the Americans: the one idea of the 
wife is to be a snob. Yet, in spite of the supercilious- 
ness of Madame Cosby, she has not half the refinement 
of the good citizens of New York. They may be a trifle 
provincial in their ideals (/. e., they do not gamble, or 
take delight in breaking several of the commandments), 
but they can put on a pretty front at an assembly or 
concert. They dress with neatness, and a fair amount 
of taste; they are sprightly and good-humored, with ad- 
mirable manners, albeit a trifle stilted, and they keep 
plentifully laden tables for the comfort both of them- 
selves and the welcome visitors within their hospitable 
gates. They have, in fine, the habits and accomplishments 
of colonial gentlefolk, and they are, unlike their Governor, 
neither swindlers nor blacklegs. But what cares Madame 
Cosby, sister of the puissant Earl of Halifax, for all this ? 
She is an Englishwoman, and the wife of the Governor of 
New York, and can afford to be proud and overbearing. 

And what of Mistress Eleanor Cosby ? She is deeply 
engaged in a serious flirtation with a very gay aristocrat 
who is visiting New York, He is Lord Augustus Fitzroy, 
son of the Duke of Grafton, Madame Cosby is de- 
lighted when she sees, with those shrewd, lynx eyes of 

130 



CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID 

hers, that Fitzroy has fallen in love with the sweet face 
of Mistress Eleanor. It is an alluring thought, that she, 
Madame Cosby, may become the mother-in-law of a 
Duke's child. She will do all she can to forward the 
romance. No doubt she confides her hopes to her hus- 
band, the Governor; but the Governor is afraid to con- 
nive at the love affair. The Duke of Grafton is all pow- 
erful in English politics, and his Grace may disapprove of 
the match. Therefore will the wily Governor pretend to 
know nothing about it. He determines to shut his eyes 
to the doings of the pair, and he does shut them. 

Madame Cosby, however, has no such conscientious 
scruples. When she learns that Fitzroy has at last 
thrown himself at the feet of Eleanor, who has accepted 
him, she resolves to bring matters to a climax, it is im- 
possible, owing to the caution and the blindness of the 
Governor, to give the young couple the desired display 
of a public wedding ceremony. There must be an 
elopement, which will have the sequel of marriage, and 
at the same time save Cosby any unpleasant reproaches 
from the Duke of Grafton. Happy thought. Madame 
Cosby begins to make the necessary preparations with 
as much zest as if she, rather than her daughter, were to 
be the bride. The daughter, be it added, is only too glad 
to have so determined a match-maker in the family. 

On a certain bright day there is an air of suppressed 
excitement in the residence of the Governor. This build- 
ing, known as "The White Hall," was at the corner of 

131 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

what are now Whitehall and State Streets. Miss Eleanor 
goes about the house with a heightened color in her at- 
tractive face, and Madame Cosby cultivates an air of 
mysterious importance. A practiced eye may detect that 
something startling is about to happen. The Governor 
himself has an air of pristine innocence that might be al- 
most too studied to deceive the Duke of Grafton, were 
his Grace in New York. Lord Augustus Fitzroy is con- 
spicuous by his absence. No one speaks his name. 

Evening comes. Suddenly Madame Cosby, looking as 
determined as only a harsh-visaged female can, runs hast- 
ily up to the servants' quarters, and proceeds to turn the 
keys in the doors of the surprised domestics. There is 
to be something unusual, she thinks, and the servants 
shall not spoil matters by raising an alarm. Then, hav- 
ing taken this precaution, the lady creeps into the room 
of Eleanor, who is, no doubt, pale and trembling, as befits 
her romance. Madame throws a huge red cloak over the 
girl's white dress. Next she leads her through the house 
and down to the gateway of the garden. Here Fitzroy, 
looking handsome and impatient, awaits her with some 
of his boon companions. There awaits her, too, a clergy- 
man of the Church of England. He is chaplain to the 
Governor of the Province of New York, yet he has 
climbed a fence to assist at this irregular function. The 
Governor himself is absent. He has taken good care to play 
his role well. The fact is that he is at his club, and getting 
gloriously intoxicated into the bargain. 

133 



CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID 

No sooner is the wedding party — for such it is — duly 
and secretly assembled than the chaplain proceeds to 
make Eleanor Cosby and Lord Augustus Fitzroy man and 
wife. The following day, when the Governor has re- 
covered from the effects of his club, he is, of course, 
dumbfounded at the news that his daughter has eloped. 
How astonishing! Who was the presumptuous groom ? 
The Lord Augustus Fitzroy. Well, well! How 
strange ! The Governor is willing to take a hundred oaths 
that he is the most surprised man in all the province, and 
vows that never before has he been so fooled by a girl. 

Yet while his Excellency is protesting that he is a most 
startled father, there is one girl, not his daughter, who is 
engaged, in very truth, in the business of fooling him. 
She is Mistress Euphemia Morris, elder daughter of the 
Chief Justice Morris who has such a contempt for Cosby, 
and, as it so happens, she is engaged to marry a Captain 
Norris, commander of an English man-of-war now an- 
chored off New York. Miss Morris, like her father, de- 
spises the rude Governor. Now her chance has come to 
show his Excellency, with the incidental aid of her lover, 
of what stuff American maidens are made. 

The thing occurs in this wise. The Governor has 
made himself so obnoxious to the most patriotic people 
of New York, and has tried to lord it over them with so 
high a hand, that they resolve in secret to send Chief 
Justice Morris over to England to put their grievances be- 
fore the government. Now this is exactly what the 

133 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

Governor would not want done, if he knew of the plan. 
He already fears that some one of his enemies may sail 
away from the port, bound on such a mission. Accord- 
ingly he issues an order whereby no one is to be allowed 
to sail unless the passenger bears a permit graciously 
signed by the Governor. That is a bit of autocracy of 
which even the King of England would be slow to avail 
himself; but what of that? These wretched provincials 
have no rights that a high and mighty Governor, the 
brother-in-law to the Earl of Halifax,. is bound to respect. 

Chief Justice Morris knows that if he is to get away to 
England he must do so by stratagem. Cosby will never 
grant an opponent a permit to leave the harbor of New 
York. So he asks, demurely enough, for permission to 
go to his home. This is a trifle wily on the part of 
Colonel Morris, for the " home " intended happens to be 
England, and not his place in the country. However, it 
is supposed that he refers to the latter, and the necessary 
permit is obtained from the unsuspecting Governor. 

So far this is easy work for the Chief Justice. But it is 
incumbent on him, as he has not yet departed, to be very 
wary. He is now at his residence in Morrisania. Before 
he sails he must secure from his friend James Alexander, 
in New York, certain documents which are intended to 
prove to the English government the worthlessness of 
Governor Cosby. Accordingly he takes into his confi- 
dence his daughter Euphemia, the fiancee of Captain 
Norris. She is instructed to go to New York, apparently 

134 



CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID 

bent on paying an innocent visit to Mrs. Alexander, and 
must surreptitiously obtain from the latter's husband the 
incriminating papers. Miss Euphemia is only too glad 
to assist in such an adventure: she is young, and ro- 
mantic blood bubbles through her veins. So she dons 
a becoming dress, puts a velvet riding mask over her 
animated face, and is soon ready for the trip. 

"The journey in those days was long and tiresome," 
says Mrs. Van Rensselaer, " the Harlem River having to 
be crossed in a scow, poled by two negroes, from the 
mainland to a point on Mana-ha-ta, where the horses and 
coach were kept. The latter was a heavy, cumbersome 
affair, hung on great straps, with a hammer-cloth cov- 
ering the coachman's seat; the doors were emblazoned 
with the family coat-of-arms and the crest of a flaming 
castle, with the motto, Tandem Vincetur. The horses 
were the strong, ugly geldings of Holland blood that 
were necessary in order to drag such a cumbersome 
affair through the mire and over the stones. ... A ne- 
gro coachman dressed in a livery of pale blue cloth with sil- 
ver and wearing a triangular cocked hat trimmed with 
broad silver lace, sat on the box and skilfully drove his 
clumsy horses, and a negro boy hung by the tassels be- 
hind, wearing the same livery, with the exception that a 
jockey-cap of Turkish leather, with silver seams and 
band, took the place of the coachman's cocked hat." 

No sooner had Miss Morris reached the home of the 
Alexanders than she had a private interview with Mr. 

135 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

Alexander, who gave her, with the utmost secrecy, the 
needful documents. The two must have felt like the 
conspirators in a play. There were many cautions and 
whisperings between them: then the girl hurried away to 
join her father, who had, in the meantime, journeyed on 
alone to New York. The Chief Justice and his daughter 
now began the return trip to Morrisania. On their way 
they saw the frigate Tartar, commanded by Captain 
Norris, passing through Hell Gate. Father and daughter 
exchanged significant smiles. Well they might, for Nor- 
ris was to give aid and due effect to their little plot. 

Euphemia Morris was not a girl who would be content 
with mere protestations of affection on the part of her 
lover. She was ready to put his vows to the test (being 
practical despite her romantic spirit), and had already 
enlisted him in a plan to aid her father in his attempt to 
steal off to England. It was a case of "Help my father, 
and you have my hand." The Captain, at the risk of 
throwing himself into hot water, had gallantly responded 
to the invitation. It was arranged that the Tartar should 
anchor off Morrisania that same evening, and then sail 
away to England the very moment that Colonel Morris 
boarded her. No doubt the lovely Euphemia wished 
that she, too, were to take the voyage. Still, she could 
comfort herself with the reflection that she had for her 
fiance a man true as steel, who had already proved his 
love in a manner from which many a carpet-knight 
might have shrunk in dismay. One thing she knew, and 

136 



CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID 

it was, indeed, a pleasant thing to which to look for- 
ward. There would be opportunity for her, amid the 
bustle of departure, to have one farewell talk with Cap- 
tain Norris. 

That evening there was an unusual scene on the land- 
ing at Morrisania. Euphemia Morris, in whose face 
shone alternately joy and sorrow — ^joy at the conduct of 
her lover, and sorrow at taking leave of him and her 
father — was listening to a torrent of whispered words 
from the Captain. We can all surmise the import of 
those words. The Chief Justice was bidding farewell to 
his other children and to Mrs. Morris. They were look- 
ing tearful, as they might, for a journey across the ocean, 
even in a man-of-war, was accounted a dangerous thing 
more than a century and a half ago. Out in the deep 
water was anchored the Tartar, from whose bulwarks 
men peered curiously into the darkness. How Governor 
Cosby would have ground his teeth, had he seen this little 
episode; but the Governor was not there to see. In all 
probability he was in his usual state of forgetfulness at 
the club. 

At last the lapse of time warned the Chief Justice that 
he should be off. It might be supposed that this thought 
should have occurred first to Captain Norris, but as the 
latter was young, very human, and much in love, why 
should we blame him for a delay that must have been so 
tempting ? As he whispered soft nothings into the ears 
of the clinging Euphemia, there was a cry from one of 

137 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

the party. It came from Colonel Morris, who shouted 
that there was no time to be lost. A few more words, a 
something that sounded suspiciously like a kiss, and then 
the naval officer tore himself away. In another minute 
sailors were rapidly rowing the gig of Captain Norris 
over to the frigate. Another two or three minutes, and 
the Captain, with Colonel Morris near him, was walking 
the quarter-deck of his vessel. Soon the Tartar was 
under sail, making directly for the ocean. Governor 
Cosby was outwitted. In the pocket of the Chief Jus- 
tice's coat were the papers which set forth the Governor's 
treachery, greed and incompetency. 

In this wise, through the connivance of a woman, did 
Cosby wake up one fine morning to find that one of his 
greatest enemies had given him the slip. It turned out, 
however, as Colonel Morris learned upon his arrival in 
England, that the Governor had such interest with the 
government, through his connections with influential 
people, that it was impossible to dislodge him from his 
position. The English Lords of Trade cared very little 
whether or not the New York "rustics " were dissatisfied 
with their ruler. But we may be sure that Cosby and his 
sour-visaged wife never forgave Miss Euphemia Morris 
for her share in the conspiracy. That young lady after- 
wards married the Captain who had risked his commis- 
sion in her behalf, and we hear of her as one of the 
married belles of a New York assembly. 

There was another New York woman, this time a de- 

138 



CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID 

voted wife rather than a fiancee, who soon set her own 
wit against the wit of the Governor, and came out of the 
ordeal with flying colors. This was Mrs. Alexander, 
wife of the before-mentioned Mr. James Alexander, and 
one of the most beautiful young matrons in the colony. 
She had more than beauty, fortunately enough; she was 
bright of mind and full of energy. Never, indeed, 
did she show this brightness and energy more strikingly 
than during the "Zenger" excitement. How the name 
of Zenger did stir up the inhabitants of the town, to be 
sure! The name is almost forgotten now, save by the 
students of history, although the bearer of it did more 
than any one else has done since to vindicate the liberty 
of the press in America. 

John Peter Zenger, a German by birth, was the pub- 
lisher of the New York Weekly Journal — a new paper 
that gave great comfort to the honest citizens by its at- 
tacks on the sins, personal and official, of the Governor. 
The articles were written, it was thought, by James 
Alexander and William Smith, the great lawyer; but, 
although the Governor had a shrewd suspicion that such 
was the case, and offered a reward to any one who 
would discover the authorship of the offending criticisms, 
the mystery was not solved. At last the Governor had 
Zenger imprisoned. It was a bold move; bold, indeed, 
to the extent of absolutism, for it meant, if it were to 
mean anything, that honest fault-finding against a public 
official would be treated as treason. 

139 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

No sooner had the printer been brought into court for 
trial, with James Alexander and William Smith as his 
counsel, than James DeLancey, then Chief Justice (him- 
self a great toady to the Governor) did a strange, illegal 
thing. Fearing that two such good lawyers as Alex- 
ander and Smith would secure from the jury a verdict 
in favor of the defendant, he promptly ordered that 
their two names should be stricken from the roll of 
attorneys-at-law in the province. No Czar of all 
the Russias could have been more brazenly unjust and 
despotic. 

The people of New York were astounded, and, worse 
yet, frightened. What was to be their fate under such a 
tyrannical state of things ? Mr. Alexander began to 
think very seriously of the advisability of moving to 
Philadelphia, where he might practice law, and enjoy a 
greater measure of freedom. But Mrs. Alexander was 
made of sterner stuff. " Why should we give in to our 
enemies?" was the substance of the question that she 
asked her disgusted husband. "Instead of going away 
to a new province, where we are unknown, and without 
influence, let us stay here to fight the Governor and his 
friends — and conquer them!" She hinted that if no 
New York lawyer now dared to defend poor Zenger, 
after the arbitrary action of DeLancey, help might be se- 
cured from Philadelphia. There was Andrew Hamilton, 
an attorney of rare power, who might snap his fingers at 
the Chief Justice in New York. The latter could not pre- 

140 



CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID 

vent Hamilton from carrying on his profession in Penn- 
sylvania. Disbarment in the courts of New York would 
offer no terrors for one who was wont to practice in 
Philadelphia. "Let us secretly communicate with An- 
drew Hamilton," urged Mrs. Alexander. 

The suggestion seems to have met with approval; but 
the problem now was how to see this Mr. Hamilton 
without attracting the suspicion of the Governor's hench- 
men, headed by DeLancey ? For it was needful that 
when the case of Zenger, which had been continued, 
should again come up in court, the new counsel for the 
printer should, as it were, take the Chief Justice un- 
awares, without giving word or warning. Otherwise 
DeLancey would have time to devise some plot against 
him. Thereupon the woman's wit of pretty Mistress 
Alexander came to the rescue. She would travel to 
Philadelphia herself to ask Mr. Hamilton if he would 
take charge of Zenger's case! It was a brilliant 
stroke of genius. Her husband and Mr. Smith were 
charmed at the idea. Mrs. Alexander should battle 
for the freedom of the press, and the liberties of the 
people. 

The greatest caution, however, was necessary. If the 
Governor got wind of her mission. Heaven alone knew 
what would be the outcome. So the lady began to dis- 
semble — and we all know how much better a woman 
can dissemble than a man. She gave out, with a great 
deal of ostentation, that she was going to Perth Amboy 

141 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

on private business, and she sailed away from the wharf 
in New York with as much publicity as possible. When, 
however, the schooner reached Perth Amboy, Mrs. Alex- 
ander suddenly found that her private business was not 
very important. She stole away from the place in a 
coach, and was soon rattling through the country to 
Philadelphia. Sewed tightly within her silken petticoat 
were the legal papers prepared by her husband for 
the Zenger case. These she was to present to Mr. 
Hamilton. 

In due time Mrs. Alexander was back again in New 
York. She told her friends that she had had a most suc- 
cessful trip, in attending to that private business at Perth 
Amboy. Later the trial of the printer was called up 
again in court. All New York, not forgetting the Gov- 
ernor, was asking the question: "What lawyer among 
us will have the bravery to defend Zenger ? " Cosby was 
quite sure that John Peter Zenger would find himself 
without counsel. Was not the pliable tool of a DeLancey 
ready to disbar any New York attorney who would dare 
to brave the Governor's displeasure? What, therefore, 
was the discomfiture of Cosby and DeLancey when the 
distinguished Philadelphian, Andrew Hamilton, whom 
they dared not serve as they would one of their own 
lawyers, walked into court as the accredited representa- 
tive of the prisoner. 

How the Governor squirmed when he listened to the 

brilliant speech in behalf of the defendant, whose only 

142 



CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID 

crime was that he had published the truth. How the 
jury craned their necks to hear every word of this Phila- 
delphia eloquence. How the face of Chief Justice De- 
Lancey grew gloomier and gloomier of expression. And 
how the people in the court-room did cheer, to be sure, 
when the jury brought in a verdict of "Not guilty!" 
The verdict meant that the press was not to be enslaved, 
and that the faults of a public official, even be he a Royal 
Governor, were not to be regarded as sacred. 

The cheers sent a flush of anger surging into the 
cheeks of the Chief Justice, for they sounded like an 
insult for himself. "The court will order any one who 
huzzas sent to prison! " he cried, in a great passion, with 
kindling eyes. There was, however, one in the audience 
who was not to be overawed by this judicial bullying. 
It was the dashing Captain Norris, our friend of the 
frigate Tartar, who had just married Euphemia Morris, 
on his return from England. "Huzzas," he cried, "are 
common in Westminster Hall!" and he went on to 
justify the custom with an eloquence that one might 
hardly have expected from a naval officer. Then there 
was renewed cheering in the court-room, which was 
taken up by the crowd in the street. The day was won 
for Zenger, and, better still, for liberty of opinion. It is 
pleasant, as we look back on this scene, to reflect that 
the man who put in so manly an appeal for American 
freedom, although himself an Englishman, should have 
been the husband of Euphemia Morris. Captain Norris 

143 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

was, indeed, a gentleman. Had there been many Eng- 
lishmen like him over in the colonies the Revolution 
might have been postponed for years. 

And what of that handsome schemer, pretty Mrs. 
Alexander? She was the most pleased woman in all 
New York, excepting possibly Mrs. Norris, when she 
saw the complete success of her intrigue. Andrew 
Hamilton was the hero of the hour, much to the chagrin 
of the Governor and his underlings. He was obliged to 
run the gauntlet of a public dinner given in his honor, a 
ball, and a quantity of hand-shaking and congratulations. 
When he began his return journey to Philadelphia he 
went off with all the pomp due to a conquering 
King. 

Cosby had received a blow from which he never re- 
covered. He was not a thin-skinned man, for rascals in 
office seldom are, but to recall the triumph of Zenger and 
the rejoicings of the populace made him gnash his teeth 
with rage. One may be even worse than his Excellency, 
and yet smart under public censure. So the Governor 
"went into a consumption," and there was little to con- 
sole him in his illness save, perhaps, the thought that his 
pretty daughter Eleanor, Lady Augustus Fitzroy, had 
given birth to a son who would become, in future years, 
Duke of Grafton. Through these final days his wife 
was constant to him, as if to show that she had, at least, 
some good in her vulgar heart. He died late in the win- 
ter of 1735-36, and few men were hypocritical enough to 

144 



CONSPIRACIES AND CUPID 

pretend to any sorrow. The next year the Messrs. 
James Alexander and William Smith were reinstated at 
the bar. The administration of Cosby had not been alto- 
gether wasted; for it had shown that even at that early 
day there were two women who were ready to aid in 
preserving the liberties of America. 



145 



VII 
BORN TO BE A REBEL 

THERE was a mighty unrest in the province of 
Massachusetts Bay for some time preceding 
the historic effusion of blood at Lexington and 
Concord where the embattled farmers fired the shot 
"heard round the world," and thus somewhat unexpect- 
edly put in motion the American Revolution. Gage and 
his army of red-coats had possession of Boston, while 
the patriots, as they saw but too clearly that England in- 
tended to turn the colonies into helpless dependencies, 
could only watch and pray — and do something more 
practical. They could prepare. Old muskets were 
brought from fireplace or closet and polished up; an 
eye was kept on any powder and ball that might be con- 
veniently near; leaden ware was secretly moulded into 
bullets ; conferences were held at dead of night to dis- 
cuss the future and devise ways and means for defense, 
should there unfortunately arise any necessity for such 
extremity. It was like living on the cone of Vesuvius, 
with an eruption in prospect. 

The weeks went on and the patriots became more de- 
termined, as it was made plainer and plainer that Eng- 
land looked upon all who opposed her blind arrogance as 

149 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

rebellious upstarts. They dismantled the old battery at 
Charleston and carried away the guns, to save them from 
being turned upon themselves; they organized militia 
companies in the towns outside of Boston; they col- 
lected military stores. While they were doing this, the 
red-coats were swaggering about Boston, treating the 
citizens as they might treat inferior beings, and predict- 
ing freely that the colonials would never have enough 
pluck to stand up against half a company of well-armed 
British regulars. Once a British colonel and some troops 
marched to Salem to seize the cannon deposited there, 
but the Salemites raised the draw of the Old North 
Bridge, and the Colonel marched home again without the 
ordnance. At another time soldiers were sent out from 
Boston to overawe the inhabitants of a neighboring town. 
These and other events roused the whole countryside to a 
pitch of feverish excitement. More British troops were 
on their way to America. It was known, too, that good 
King George had made up his mind to crush the subjects 
who had once cherished for him, while he deserved it, the 
most unstinted loyalty and affection. All this mine of 
disaffection, therefore, needed but a light to set it off into 
explosion. 

That light was soon to be applied. It was now the 
spring of 1775. The Provincial Congress, at Concord, 
was taking measures to raise an army and to resist 
aggression. Its members appointed a day of prayer and 
fasting, and calmly awaited what they wisely believed to 

150 



BORN TO BE A REBEL 

be the inevitable. In Boston General Gage had turned 
the Old South Church into a riding-school for his cavalry, 
to show his truly English contempt for the feelings of an 
honorable enemy. Every night the taverns of the town 
resounded with the toasts of half-drunken British officers, 
who drank " Confusion to the rebels! " 

Now it happened that in one of the regiments which 
domineered the Bostonians there was a certain Samuel 
Lee, an Englishman of thirty or thereabouts. He was a 
good-looking fellow, and though only a private, he came 
of an old and respected family across the Atlantic. The 
Lees were Tories, of the dyed-in-the-wool kind. They 
looked upon the Americans as ungracious clowns who 
should be punished for daring to think there was wrong 
in anything that an august sovereign might desire to im- 
pose upon them. The sum and substance of the philos- 
ophy held by Samuel Lee's father was: "We are Eng- 
lish, and, therefore, we cannot err. If the Americans 
differ from us — why, then the rascally Americans are 
wrong!" The old gentleman suggested very strongly 
the complacent French lady who complained to Benja- 
min Franklin that she had never come across any one 
who was exactly right in all his or her views. So Lee 
had said to his son, Samuel: " Go to the war, and don't 
come back till the rebels in America are all conquered — 
or dead! " 

Young Lee had enlisted forthwith. He was now quar- 
tered in Boston at the barracks of the Tenth Regiment. 

151 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

No doubt his heart had been full of vengeance as he 
sailed across the sea in a transport, and listened to the 
boastful talk of his fellow-soldiers, who were loud in 
their contempt for the "rebels." But there came a 
change after he had been in Boston for a few weeks. He 
saw that the despised colonials were staunch, honest 
people, many of them possessed of refinement and 
worldly substance, and all of them imbued with that love 
of freedom which any Englishman should have been 
proud to foster. He saw, too, that their grievances were 
real, not imaginary. It began to dawn on him— for he 
was without the average insular blindness — that he was 
soon to fight against a much-wronged foe. But, alas, 
was he not a soldier of the King, and did not honor re- 
quire him to stick to his colors ? He was a brave man, 
and true, but as winter passed into the spring of 1775 he 
grew more and more unhappy. 

Yet a man may fight for a wrong cause and feel no un- 
easiness, as long as he is acting under orders. Why 
should Samuel Lee take the misfortunes of the American 
patriots so much to heart ? Was it merely that he had 
thought the matter out, and had been brought to his 
present frame of mind through the light of cold reason- 
ing ? It was not that altogether. Truth compels us to 
say that Lee had a very personal interest in the American 
cause; he loved a fair rebel. Her name was Polly Piper. 
It was euphonious enough to suggest the title of some 
bouncing song — and its pretty bearer was the daughter 

152 



BORN TO BE 



REBEL 



of a Boston patriot. As she set forth the wrongs of the 
colonists, her expressive, pensive face would flush with 
an anger that greatly enhanced her charms (for she was 
usually pale), and Samuel Lee, British soldier though he 
was, could not, and would not say her nay. He was 
fast becoming a friend to America, or something more 
than a friend to a certain young American. 

A man is not so skilful in concealing his feelings as is 
a woman. Ere long Lee's fellow-soldiers found out that 
Cupid had been busy with one of their number. They 
began to tease the lover unmercifully. Had the latter 
been in love with a Tory the teasing would have been 
only of the good-natured kind; but it became more or 
less malicious from the fact that the girl in the case 
chanced to be a patriot. The soldiers jeered at him, and 
they placarded the door of his barracks with a conspicu- 
ous sign which read : 



Caught in Provincial Meshes. 



We may fancy, too, that Lee had to stand many a de- 
claration to the effect that he was a " blawsted rebel," a 

163 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

"chicken-hearted provincial " or something equally crim- 
inal. Yet he went on serving his King, whilst the polit- 
ical crisis drew nearer and nearer. After being detained 
some days by extra duties in camp, Lee stole out from his 
quarters, "and made haste to the street and door where 
he had last seen the object of his growing affections. To 
his surprise, all evidence of life had departed; the shutters 
were closed, the doors barred, and no light flickered from 
any window. His shrill whistle only brought an answer- 
ing echo from the shed in the rear. He turned sorrow- 
fully away, revolving in his mind the thought, could it 
be that this family had been driven to such a state of des- 
peration as to leave their home and go into a country 
town, as so many had done ? " ' 

How Lee railed at unkind fate, as he looked at the de- 
serted house, and regretted that he had never told Polly 
of his love. In those discussions with her concerning 
the rights and wrongs of the provincials, why had he 
never revealed his heart to her ? Why had he not told 
her that he sympathized with the Americans, British sol- 
dier though he was ? It was too late now. Miss Lee 
and her family had disappeared as completely as if they 
had been transported to another planet, and it seemed as 
if no amount of inquiries in their old neighborhood could 
throw any light on their present whereabouts. When 
some one told him that the Pipers had " gone to Con- 
cord," Lee was made incredulous by the very promptness 

• Beneath Old Roof Trees, by Abram English Brown. 
154 



BORN TO BE A REBEL 

of the reply. He believed that it was only designed to 
deceive him. " They regard me as an enemy to their 
country, these Americans," he thought bitterly, "and 
would throw me off the track." So he stalked back to 
his barracks, as disconsolate a lover as ever existed. 
" Those bright eyes were before him wherever he went. 
When on the duty of a guard at night he fancied their 
tearful presence." In fine, our Samuel was frightfully 
" love-sick "; the life of a soldier lost all charm for him. 
How can a man thirst to fight the enemy when he has 
already surrendered to the charms of a daughter of the 
enemy ? And when he believes, as well, in the political 
principles of the enemy ? This was why Lee groaned in 
spirit, whilst his comrades continued to laugh at him and 
to cry that Sam was held prisoner by a Boston maiden. 

Thus winter passed into spring. Nature seemed in her 
most genial mood; nothing about her presaged the com- 
ing storm. But General Gage received information in 
April that a quantity of powder and other ammunition 
had been stored at Concord village by the desperate pro- 
vincials. He determined to secure this ammunition; and 
from this determination came the night march of the reg- 
ulars from Boston and the engagements at Lexington and 
Concord on April 19, 1775, when the curtain rose on the 
first act of the drama of the Revolution. 

Among the men who were ordered to march to Con- 
cord was the forlorn Lee. He must have lacked the 
enthusiasm of his companions, who, only too delighted 

155 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

to get away from their stupid barracks, and quite sure 
that there was no danger to apprehend from the country- 
people, felt like boys about to be released from school. 
When they heard that they were to seize the stores and 
ammunition in the little Massachusetts village they joked, 
in their ignorance, about the ease of their mission. 
"The name of the place should be Conquered," they 
laughed. To Lee the name of the place suggested 
Polly Piper. Perhaps, after all, the person who 
told him that the Pipers had gone to Concord might 
have spoken truth. His heart bounded at the thought. 
But it was not a pleasant thought. She might be there, 
and he was marching to the village as an enemy. 

Who has not heard the story of that memorable 
march ? At Lexington there was some shedding of 
patriot blood. Then and there began the Revolution. 
Yet the regulars and their officers looked upon the 
episode as the cupping of some over-blooded rustics — 
and so marched on to Concord. It was about nine 
o'clock in the morning that there came the clash at Old 
North Bridge when the British received their first 
repulse. 

The first of the minutemen to be in readiness for the 
coming of the British were those in the company of 
Captain Isaac Davis, of Acton, that brave, god-fearing, 
sedate Puritan. As his men were arranging their guns, 
preparatory to marching, they laughed and talked, much 
as the regulars had laughed and talked in Boston a few 

156 



BORN TO BE A REBEL 

hours before. They were only too anxious for a brush 
with the red-coats. But Davis, man of iron, rebuked them 
for what he held to be their levity. " 'Tis a most eventful 
crisis for the colonies," he said. "Blood will be spilled; 
that's certain. Let every man gird himself for battle, and 
be not afraid, for God is on our side! " So the company 
became serious and silently marched away from the 
Captain's house. Suddenly he called a halt. Then 
he ran back to his home to take a last look at 
his wife and four children. He had a presentiment 
that he would be dead ere nightfall. He stood on 
the threshold, tearless, but with a lump in his 
throat. "Take good care of the children," he said, and 
so turned away. In another minute he had rejoined his 
men. With a mighty effort he forgot the father; again 
he was the soldier. Later on Davis was bringing his 
company into position on the highlands at North Bridge, 
taking the extreme left of the line of provincials who had 
been hastily summoned to resist the British. Then 
Colonel Barrett held a council of war. There were, per- 
haps, six hundred patriots assembled here under arms. 
Not so far away, on yonder hills, could be seen the 
gorgeously-clad forms of Colonel Smith and Major 
Pitcairn, of the British regulars. While the American 
officers were at their council, trying to determine what 
to do, they saw smoke and flame rising from Concord. 

" They have set the village on fire," cried one of the 
patriots; "will you let them burn it down?" Colonel 

157 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

Barrett and his officers resolved to cross the bridge, 
march into the town, and engage the regulars who 
were now there. "I haven't a man that's afraid to go/' 
cried Captain Davis. It was true; not one soul among all 
those men of Middlesex was afraid to go. 

Then Colonel Barrett gave the order to march to the 
bridge, and the minutemen began to move, deliberately, 
bravely. Some of the British were scattered about on 
the west side of the bridge, along the Concord River. 
Mingled with the music of "The White Cockade," 
played by young American fifers, came the booming of 
British guns. Then there whistled by a volley from the 
invaders, and Captain Davis fell, never to rise again. His 
presentiment had been verified. 

" Fire, fellow soldiers! For God's sake, fire! " shouted 
one of the colonial officers, Major Buttrick, as he dis- 
charged his own musket. The command echoed along 
the line. The fire was returned. In the end the British, 
after being joined by the regulars from Concord, had 
broken ranks and started back to Boston in ignominious 
retreat. The Revolution had begun. 

" By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled. 
Here once the embattled farmers stood, 
And fired the shot heard round the world. 

" The foe long since in silence slept ; 
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; 
And Time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps." 

158 



BORN TO BE A REBEL 

But where was our friend, the love-lorn Samuel Lee, 
throughout this trying time ? When the British regulars 
first marched into Concord, and began their work of 
destruction, he found himself without heart for the 
task. He was so much without heart, indeed, that 
one of his fellow-soldiers cried sharply: "Why, Sam, 
there's no life in you! What's the matter?" Lee might 
have replied that he found no joy in fighting on the 
wrong side, but he wisely held his tongue. Had he been 
fighting the French he would have proved, no doubt, as 
brave as a lion; but to wage war against one's own 
kinsmen, especially when one of those kinsmen might 
be a relative of Polly Piper's, was quite another thing! 
When he reached the historic bridge, as Mr. Brown 
tells us, he "had no death-dealing shot for the yeo- 
men." Neither did he fire on the return to Concord. 
As he ran past the meeting-house, however, he was hit 
by a bullet from an American's musket, and fell to the 
ground badly wounded. 

Some good Samaritans, in the shape of villagers, 
tenderly came to the assistance of the stricken regular. 
They lifted him from the roadway and bore him to the 
house of Dr. Minot, the Concord surgeon. The room in 
which he was placed presented an appearance of ghastly 
activity. Other stricken men, with blood flowing from 
their wounds, were stretched out upon the floor, while 
the Doctor and his friends were rendering what services 
they could. Among these friends was a pretty, pale- 

159 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

faced but resolute girl who went about her ministrations 
with the air of a heroine. She was of the stuff of which 
many American maidens are made; palient, unflinching, 
and ready for any emergency. At last she came to the 
almost unconscious Lee. His eyes were closed; it 
seemed as if he were about to die. Yet the girl leaned 
over him, unshrinkingly, and began to dress his 
wounds. Surely she must have started as she gazed 
into his powder-grimed face. For she was Polly 
Piper. 

She went on, however, attending to the soldier. He 
still had his eyes closed, as if he would never open them 
again. Then Dr. Minot came to her. " Mary," he said, 
giving her some directions. Lee opened his eyes. There, 
before him, was Polly Piper! From that moment life, 
which but a second before had seemed to be ebbing 
away, struggled for the mastery. The lover resolved, 
perhaps unconsciously, to get well; he had something to 
live for. 

The spring days passed on. Already the colonies 
were aflame over the news from Concord, and King 
George would soon be startled to hear that some un- 
trained provincials had dared to fire on his troops. Na- 
ture smiled more and more; the sun grew more genial; 
the bluebirds chirped so merrily that it was hard to un- 
derstand how war could stalk in the land. Lee was 
lying under a colonial roof. The kind Doctor was 
amazed that the soldier should be growing better instead 

160 



BORN TO BE A REBEL 

of worse, for the wound had promised to be fatal. 
" You'll live, Lee! " he said at last. 

Lee looked at Minot with a curious expression on his 
face. "I'll not live to go back to the British army, to 
fight against such friends," he answered. During the 
weary hours of his illness (if hours could be weary 
whilst Miss Piper was attending him) he had made one 
great decision. Never more would he bear arms against 
a people whom he believed to be in the right. Far bet- 
ter to stay with them, and to take up their burdens, if he 
might. A few days later the Doctor said: "You must 
have been in a very healthy condition when the Yankee 
bullet struck you." For the continued improvement of 
the soldier surprised him more and more. Then Lee 
gave the key to the situation. " My mind has been more 
fully at rest since I opened my eyes and saw Mary here," 
he said, "than for many weeks before we were ordered 
to march out of Boston! " Now the Doctor understood 
all. He began to think that it was Cupid rather than 
y^sculapius who had worked this wonderful cure. And 
what of Mary ? She had found, as the days went on, 
how very pleasant it was to know that Samuel Lee was 
safe in Concord, as an invalid, rather than safe in Boston 
as a well man. Her face lost its paleness; love had en- 
tered her heart. 

At last Lee was once more on his feet. Some one 
came to him to say that, as an exchange of prisoners was 
in order, he might return to the British troops in Boston, 

161 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

if he so chose. But he did not so choose. Never again, 
he vowed, would he serve George III. Thus spring 
passed into summer, and summer into winter. Then 
Lee asked Polly Piper the question of all questions, and 
she said " Yes." Then they were quietly married — she 
an American by birth, he one by conviction. Children 
came to them, and the Lees were a happy family indeed. 
It was in 1790 that Samuel Lee died. For him, at least, 
the romance of life was over. He had lived long enough 
to see the cause of America triumphant, and to show his 
loyalty to such a cause. He lies buried in Concord town. 
Some of his descendants still live in Massachusetts to tell 
of the man who came to this country to fight the Amer- 
icans and ended by marrying one of them. He died be- 
fore his father, and never obtained the forgiveness of the 
latter for his defection from the Royal standard. We 
can imagine the old English squire fuming and bluster- 
ing when he heard that Samuel had lost his heart among 
the " rebels." To the worthy gentleman this was worse 
than death. It was dishonor. 



ie& 



EDWIN FORREST'S FIRST LOVE 



VIII 
EDWIN FORREST'S FIRST LOVE 

CITIZENS of New Orleans who made a habit of 
walking the quaint streets of that gay town, 
with its suggestion of flowers and Creole life, as 
far back as the spring of 1824, often must have seen, 
sauntering along in earnest converse, a curiously con- 
trasted pair. The elder of the two was a man of per- 
haps thirty-five years of age, sinewy and not ill-featured, 
but with the air of a genteel desperado who would not 
hesitate to cut your throat if actually put to such an un- 
pleasant necessity. The younger man was a mere boy, 
not more than eighteen or nineteen, whose great shock 
of black hair effectively set off a face which if not over- 
refined or spiritual, or free from sensuality, was undeni- 
ably handsome and engaging. The youth always re- 
garded his friend with a look in which deference, com- 
radeship and, withal, a certain air of independence had a 
striking combination. It was plain that he was being 
initiated by the elder man into the mysteries of New 
Orleans life. And there were plenty of mysteries, too, 
in a town which had so many elements, so many types 
of mankind — French, American, Spanish, aristocratic, 

165 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

plebeian, high and low. New Orleans was then, as it is 
now, one of the most cosmopolitan places in the New 
World. 

The youth was an obscure actor by the name of Edwin 
Forrest. He was born in Philadelphia, and had been en- 
gaged, ever since he was old enough to know the value 
of a dollar, in a rough-and-tumble struggle with poverty. 
At thirteen he was working in a ship-chandler's shop in 
the Quaker city, while his mother was keeping a tiny 
millinery store on Cedar (now South) Street. But there 
was more in him than the spirit of a ship-chandler. He 
longed for the stage and its elusive honors. Once he ap- 
peared as a girl at the old "South," (the theatre wherein 
John Andre had acted), in a sensational melodrama en- 
titled The Robbers of Calabria, but his dress was so short 
that the heavy shoes and unfeminine woolen stockings 
of the fair maiden were ludicrously in evidence. " Look 
at the legs and feet!" cried a boy in the pit — and the 
curtain was rung down amid an uproar of merriment. 
Young Forrest was sent home in disgrace by the man- 
ager of the theatre. He solaced himself by waylaying 
in the street that critical boy from the pit, and treating 
him to a good thrashing. Later he was traveling through 
the West as a " barn-stormer," doing all sorts of thea- 
trical work, from Richard HI to a negro-minstrel part. 
Then he joined a circus company, in which he displayed 
a remarkable talent for turning somersaults. But he 
soon hastened back to the boards of a theatre, and was 

166 



EDWIN FORREST'S FIRST LOVE 



now, in this spring of 1824, playing "leading juveniles" 
at the American Theatre, in Camp Street, near Gravier, 
New Orleans. Such were the humble beginnings of one 
who was to be known, ere long, as "The Great Ameri- 
can Tragedian." 

Master Forrest's friend, the man with the air of a 
genteel desperado, happened to be the famous Colonel 
James Bowie. His name has gone down to posterity as 
the inventor of the effective " Bowie knife." Mr. Bowie, 
whose father was a prosperous Louisiana planter of good 
family, had been educated in a Jesuit college. But it 
does not appear that he imbibed much religious impulse 
from contact with the Jesuit fathers. On the contrary, 
he developed into a fig;hter, at once reckless, fearless and 
dashing, and became, as it were, the embodiment of 
the wildest element of Southern life. 

To the modern reader his career is scarcely known. 
Yet it reads like an act from a border melodrama. Take, 
for instance, his once-celebrated duel with Norris Wright. 
The challenge came from Wright. Bowie resolved to 
use a knife which he had caused to be made for just such 
a contingency. He had taken a file fourteen inches long, 
of the kind employed to sharpen saws; he had carefully 
ground off the file marks, and reduced the small piece of 
steel, by means of the grindstone, until it was about the 
weight and thickness he desired. Then he took it to 
"Pedro," a skilled Spanish cutler, who had learned to 
forge sword blades in Toledo. " Pedro," after tempering 

167 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

and finishing the knife, fitted it with a cross-piece and 
haft. "Now," cried Bowie enthusiastically, as he sur- 
veyed the result of his own ingenuity, and the Spaniard's 
handicraft, " 1 have something fit to fight for a man's life 
with ! " It was, indeed, a formidable weapon. " Pedro " 
had hollow-ground it like a razor, with a double edge for 
three or four inches from the point. It was fitted with a 
wooden scabbard, covered with leather, and was "sharp 
enough to shave the hair off the back of one's hand." 
This constituted the original "Bowie knife," which af- 
terwards underwent some modifications before it became 
a plaything for the general public. 

Colonel Bowie now felt secure. On the night pre- 
ceding the duel he slept the sleep of a man who is at 
peace with the world; in the morning he arose with the 
gayety of the proverbial lark, and ate — as Louisiana his- 
tory solemnly chronicles — a hearty breakfast. An hour 
or two later Bowie and Norris Wright were confronting 
each other, in the presence of some interested spectators, 
on Natchez Island, in the Mississippi River. The island 
was a favorite haunt for Southern gentlemen who had 
little difficulties to settle without the interference of the 
police authorities. The fight began, quite cheerfully, 
with pistols. One of Bowie's weapons missed fire, but 
both of Wright's bullets took effect upon his antagonist. 
The Colonel was seriously wounded. Yet he kept his 
ground with the courage of a lion. The spectators held 
their breath, and stirred uneasily. "Would he be able to 

168 



EDWIN FORREST'S FIRST LOVE 

stand the ordeal much longer?" they asked themselves, 
tremulously. 

Wright, a formidable adversary, and lithe as a panther, 
eyed the Colonel with the air of an animal who is about 
to spring upon his prey. And spring he did upon the 
wounded man, despite all the rules of fairest warfare. 
" Bowie's done for now," thought the friends of Wright. 

Bowie, however, was not "done for," by any means. 
He took a step backward, pulled from a pocket his deadly 
knife, and raised it on high, as its cruel blade flashed in 
the warm morning sun. At once three of Wright's 
friends drew their revolvers. Two of them fired — too 
late, however, to save their own champion. Bowie had 
made one ghastly cut at Wright's neck. The keen steel 
did its work only too well. Norris Wright, already dead, 
fell to the ground. 

Bowie himself was so badly riddled with bullets that 
his life was despaired of for some weeks. But he re- 
covered, and distinguished himself in another year by 
dispatching from this world, by means of the same knife, 
a certain General Grain. "My knife never misses fire! " 
he remarked to one of his chums. 

Of such mettle was James Bowie, and amid such 
curious surroundings, at once luxurious yet semi-bar- 
barous, did he live. His career had a tragic but charac- 
teristic termination some years after his intimacy with 
Edwin Forrest. In 1835 he sold his estates in Louisiana 
and went to Texas. The "Lone Star" State was in a 

169 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

condition of bloody revolution. The sturdy resistance of 
the Texans against Mexican rule so exasperated General 
Santa Ana, whose forces were trying to crush them, that 
he vowed he would take no more prisoners, or give no 
more quarter. Thereupon Bowie, only too glad to court 
danger and adventure, offered his services to the young 
Republic, and was at once made a Colonel of riflemen in 
the Texan army, in January of 1836, he was ordered to 
San Antonio de Bexar to assist in holding that place 
against the troops of Santa Ana. When March came, 
the half-starving garrison surrendered. Then ensued a 
general massacre which must forever leave a dark stain 
upon the memory of Santa Ana. Among those treacher- 
ously murdered, after the Mexicans had entered the forti- 
fications, were Colonels Bowie and Crockett. Bowie, 
who had been badly wounded three times during the 
siege, but who had bitterly opposed the surrender, was 
lying on his bed when he heard the triumphant Mexicans 
coming in. "We have surrendered!" he muttered. It 
was the first hint he had been vouchsafed that San An- 
tonio de Bexar had actually been delivered up to the 
enemy. The tramp, tramp, tramp of the feet was to 
him an ominous sound. He knew that his life was 
ended; he knew that he, of all persons, would be al- 
lowed no quarter. Already some of the Mexicans were 
rushing into his room. In another minute they were 
shooting at him, like cowards. But Bowie was not the 
man to die without a struggle. Jumping from his bed, 

170 



EDWIN FORREST'S FIRST LOVE 

despite his wounds, he leaped among the invaders with 
the glare of an enraged tiger, as he began to slash at 
them with a knife. There was the old time skill in the 
use of that "Bowie." When the firing ended "six of 
the enemy had crossed the Styx with James Bowie, and 
gone with him to the shades." 

With such a man as Colonel Bowie for a boon com- 
panion it was not to be wondered at that young Forrest 
should look upon duels with a lenient, not to say admir- 
ing eye. Furthermore, there was hot, rebellious blood 
flowing through the veins of the stripling actor. His 
father had been a Scotchman who once peddled through 
the Northern states, afterwards becoming an humble 
clerk in the Philadelphia bank of Stephen Girard; his 
mother was a plucky woman of lower-class German 
parentage, and he himself had been almost a gamin in the 
streets of the Quaker city. Gifted with an independent 
spirit, yet keenly feeling his social disadvantages, it is 
not strange that Edwin soon cultivated a sort of jealousy 
and an affectation of contempt for the conventionalities 
of the polite world. He chose, foolishly enough, to call 
those conventionalities "sham and hypocrisy." Thus it 
happened that when he made a stir in New Orleans, by 
the youthful fire of his acting, he refused the olive-branch 
held out to him by the aristocratic Creoles of the town. 
He would have nothing to do with the upper strata of 
Southern society; he rather decided to cast in his lot with 
horse-racers, gamblers, and gentlemen of a sporting pro- 

171 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

clivity. He even went so far in his desire to be uncon- 
ventional as to become very intimate v^'ith Push-ma-ta- 
ha, a Choctaw chieftain who occasionally graced New 
Orleans with his manly presence. " What a contrast he 
is," cried Forrest, speaking of the Indian, "to some 
fashionable men, half made up of false teeth, false hair, 
padding, gloves, and spectacles." 

Yet much as Edwin Forrest might philosophize about 
"fashion," and other things, he was no more a philoso- 
pher than was Romeo, when it came to a love afifair. 
Perhaps, if he had possessed a little more of the despised 
conventionality, it would have been better for his peace 
of mind when he chanced to fall desperately in love with 
Jane Placide. Miss Placide was the leading lady of the 
American Theatre, where Forrest was acting. She was, 
furthermore, one of the most beautiful actresses of her 
day. She might be a year or two older than the budding 
tragedian, but what mattered that to him } We all know 
that callow youths are prone to lose their hearts over 
women who are slightly their elders. And Jane Placide 
could well inspire even a younger swain with the tender 
passion. Her face had in it not only the beauty which 
comes from regularity of feature and a pure complexion; 
but, far more than that, it possessed what the poet is apt 
to describe by the indefinite term of "soulfulness." As 
she was of Southern birth, so also had she that softness, 
and refinement, and sentiment of expression which one 
sees so often in the features of those who are born south 

172 



EDWIN FORREST'S FIRST LOVE 

of Mason and Dixon's line. There was something pleas- 
antly emotional in her countenance; it suggested a feel- 
ing which is not to be observed in the Junoesque type of 
woman. When to all this attractiveness was added a 
vivacity more characteristic of the Northern belle than of 
the Southern damsel, it may be imagined that Jane 
Placide was entitled to the high place which she soon oc- 
cupied in the hearts of the New Orleans public, both 
masculine and feminine. Her acting, too, was natural, 
as befitted the granddaughter of an English artiste who 
had been a favorite at Covent Garden and Drury Lane. 
She had a talent for investing herself with the spirit of 
any part assigned to her, were it grave or gay. She 
could give dashing comedy sparkle to Violante in The 
Wonder, or put fire into the turgid lines of some worn- 
out, classic tragedy. 

But it was not until Edwin Forrest had spent some 
time in the Southern metropolis that he showed his love 
for Miss Placide. In the meanwhile, the youth made 
rapid strides in the esteem of local theatre-goers, kept to 
his intimacy with Push-ma-ta-ha, and at last incurred the 
professional jealousy of his manager, James H. Caldwell. 
Now it happened that Caldwell, who considered himself 
to be a very good actor, had not calculated on the sudden 
success of his handsome protege from Philadelphia. He 
was a man of the world, a hoyi viveitr, and a shrewd 
business gentleman; but he was no more able to resist 
the "green-eyed monster" than were less adroit speci- 

173 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

mens of mankind. When the gay play-lovers of New 
Orleans began to rave about the fine looks, the grace and 
the wonderful voice of young Forrest, the manager who 
had engaged him, and had sounded the Philadelphian's 
trumpet for him in advance, began to grow angry. "I 
did not bring this Yankee down here to supersede me," 
he thought, not without the bitterness of one who sees 
the pupil outdistancing the master. Thereupon, suiting 
the action to his jealousy, he reserved all the heroic parts 
in the plays for himself, and assigned to Forrest most of 
the old men's roles. This was, of course, a covert in- 
sult. To be refused the impersonation of romantic 
characters, where good looks and fervor are desired, and 
to be relegated to the parts of feeble septuagenarians, is 
naturally a great shock to high ambition. But Forrest, 
who had more self-control then than in later years, bore 
the ordeal manfully. He played the old men, — played 
them admirably too — and made no sign. He was even 
discreet enough to accompany Caldwell on a trip to Vir- 
ginia in the autumn of 1824, and play with him in Rich- 
mond and other cities. 

It was on this expedition that Forrest had an amusing 
sight of that great yet simple-hearted man, John Mar- 
shall, Chief Justice of the United States, and author of 
the famous "Life of Washington." The Chief Justice 
was stopping at the same country inn in which Forrest 
chanced to be quartered for the day. The landlady, a 
corpulent female who, like Hamlet, was "scant of 

174 



EDWIN FORREST'S FIRST LOVE 

breath," came out into the old-fashioned courtyard to 
catch an unsuspecting hen to roast for the dinner of the 
distinguished jurist. The hen, however, proved hardly 
as unsuspecting as might have been imagined, for she 
had the effrontery to run av^ay from the landlady. The 
latter's breath was soon spent; she waddled here, there, 
everywhere, without succeeding in trapping the wary 
fowl. The Thespian and the Chief Justice looked on the 
scene with almost tragic interest. At last John Marshall 
could stand the strain no longer. Running bareheaded 
into the courtyard, his silver shoe-buckles shining in the 
sun, and his close body-coat and tight breeches revealing 
his almost scrawny form, he began to clap his hands and 
cry " Shoo! Shoo! " as he chased the hen from one point 
to another. It is gravely recorded that the fowl who 
had eluded the fat landlady was no match against the 
wiles, or the imprisoning-power of the lawyer. He and 
Forrest dined on chicken that day. 

When the young actor returned to New Orleans, to re- 
appear at the American'Theatre late in the winter of 1824-5, 
Jane Placide was again there as leading lady. He 
promptly " fell down and prostrated himself before her 
shrine," Forrest was, indeed, at a most impressionable 
age, and had already been taking an innocent fling at the 
muse of Poetry, albeit in pretty bad verse. For when a 
certain "Miss S" left town he promptly sat down and 
wrote : 



175 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

" Ah, go not hence, light of my saddened soul ! 
Nor leave me in thy absence to lament ; 
Thy going sheds dark chaos o'er the whole, 
A noonday night from heaven sent." 

But the affections of Edwin for the " Miss S" who so 
cruelly departed was only Platonic, after all. It is very 
easy to write love verses without losing one's heart into 
the bargain. There is a more passionate ring, although 
hardly more scholarship, in some mysterious lines begin- 
ning: 

"To 



" Thy spell, O Love, is Elysium to my soul. 
Freely I yield me to thy sweet control ; 
For other joys let Folly's fools contend 
Whether to pomp or luxury they tend." 

We are quite safe in filling up the blank space after the 
preposition " To " with the magic name of Jane Placide. 
Once that Forrest was back again at the American The- 
atre, acting in the same company with this charming 
Southern girl, he forgot " Miss S," or any other passing 
fancy as quickly as Romeo forgot Rosaline when he first 
looked upon the face of Juliet. 

Yet what misery there was in that boyish love of his! 
Caldwell, the Envious, was himself in love with the lead- 
ing woman. The youth set his teeth together as he 
thought of the advantage which the manager enjoyed in 
such a suit. He, Edwin, was but the employee of Cald- 
well, and, worse than that, was often condemned to play 

176 



EDWIN FORREST'S FIRST LOVE 

old men's parts, while the manager could impersonate 
any theatrical hero he chose, and make most tender 
stage-love to the lady. It takes a stoic to look with 
equanimity on a rival who possesses so favorable a field. 

Now the stoicism of a young fellow who is worth any- 
thing cannot go so far as to keep him cool under such an 
ordeal. No wonder that Forrest clenched his hands 
when he saw Caldwell come before the footlights in the 
guise of an Orlando or a Don Felix and say pretty things 
to a gentle Rosalind or a sprightly Violante. He began 
to scowl angrily at his manager; he threw diplomacy to 
the winds; he plainly showed Mr. Caldwell that he con- 
sidered him to be a very impertinent fellow. The latter 
only laughed, like the cynical man of the world that he 
was, and regarded poor Forrest with contemptuous disdain. 

What, it may be asked, was Jane Placide doing all this 
time to encourage either of the swains .^ Practically noth- 
ing, unless it might be to look very bewitching both on 
and off the stage, and to play heroines with a tenderness 
and sweetness that made all the members of her audi- 
ences, masculine and feminine alike, her warmest admir- 
ers. She was more in love with her art than with any 
man; she liked the romance of the boards better than the 
romance of real life; yet none seemed better qualified 
than she to grace the latter. One always felt a desire to 
quote poetry when Miss Placide was mentioned; she sug- 
gested to the imaginative spectator the dainty lines from 
Twelfth Night: 

177 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

" 'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white 
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on : 
Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive 
If you will lead these graces to the grave 
And leave the world no copy." 



Soon, despite the placidity of Jane Placide, Edwin For- 
rest's wrath at his rival could no longer be kept in bounds. 
From scowls and innuendoes, the young actor proceeded 
to high words. But how provokingly cool Caldwell in- 
sisted on remaining. How he took delight in treating Ed- 
win as a foolish boy! 

At last Forrest, stung to the quick by this exasperating 
levity, sent a fiery challenge to Caldwell. The trouble 
between them should be settled by a recourse to arms! 
The energetic Colonel Bowie was, we may be quite sure, 
taken into the confidence of the challenger, and we can 
imagine how the fearless Louisianian gave his proteg6 
many valuable hints for the coming duel. The coming 
duel, forsooth! There was to be no duel! That provok- 
ing Caldwell actually was merry when he received the 
challenge. He made some good-natured remarks to the 
effect that Forrest was too young to fight, and then — yes, 
he had the hardihood to laugh! 

Forrest was thunderstruck. Was he always to be 
treated like a silly schoolboy? The thought was un- 
bearable. His vanity, of which he had a great deal, was 
wounded to the quick. So he wrote off the following 
card, in his nervous, legible hand: 

178 



EDWIN FORREST'S FIRST LOVE 

" Whereas James H. Caldwell has wronged and insulted me, and 
refused me the satisfaction of a gentleman, I hereby denounce him as a 
scoundrel and post him as a coward. 

"Edwin Forrest." 

This bellicose announcement the young man copied 
several times, and posted the cards in public places. " At 
last," he thought, "Caldwell will be angry." And 
with that comfortable reflection he hurried off to the 
country to spend a few weeks in the wigwams and hunt- 
ing grounds of Push-ma-ta-ha, the Choctaw chieftain. 
After all, thought the would-be duellist, what was civi- 
lized life to the freedom of the woods — particularly when 
the object of one's romantic affections remained so im- 
passive ? So he watched the life of the Indians, learned 
a few words of Choctaw, and admired the wild charms 
of Push-ma-ta-ha. This superb savage should have been 
preserved for posterity in the enthusiastic stories of a 
Cooper, for he is described to us as "graceful and sinewy 
as a stag, with eyes of piercing brilliancy, a voice of gut- 
teral music like gurgling waters," and with movements 
" as easy and darting as those of a squirrel." His skin, 
"mantled with blood," was of the "color of ruddy 
gold."^ 

When Caldwell read the grandiose placard written by 
Forrest he was unfeeling enough to indulge in another 
laugh. Some one told him that the actor had gone 
away to visit Push-ma-ta-ha. "Humph!" said the 

' Alger's Life of Forrest. 
179 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

astute manager, "the boy is like tiie Partliian. He 
wounds me as lie flies." This shows that Caldwell knew 
something of classic history, and, far more important, 
that he also knew how to turn the whole episode into 
ridicule. It was incumbent on him, as a man of honor, 
to treat the stormings of Forrest either seriously, or as 
the idle vaporings of a lad. He chose the latter course, 
and perhaps thereby saved the young Philadelphian from 
death at the point of a pistol. In after years Forrest 
himself could look back to this early trouble with amuse- 
ment, and thank the manager, in that rugged, gnarled 
heart of his, that there had come no answer to the 
challenge. 

But who dare say that Edwin Forrest ever forgot Jane 
Placide ? Indeed, he never did quite forget this, the first 
love of his youth. After he had hunted for a time with 
Push-ma-ta-ha, smoked many a pipe of peace, and duly 
admired the charms which all the Choctaws possessed 
over the more civilized whites, he traveled northward 
and began slowly to climb the ladder at whose top round 
he encountered fame and material prosperity. As 
month succeeded month the "wound of unrequited 
love" slowly healed. Yet, unto the very end of his 
turbulent career, he recalled with regret the girl who 
had made New Orleans seem to him a chosen-land of 
youthful romance. If we follow that career in latter life, 
and read of the dark days when he separated from 
Catharine Sinclair, his beautiful English wife, we find it 

180 



EDWIN FORREST'S FIRST LOVE 

pleasant to turn back, for a change of atmosphere, to this 
earlier page in his history. Had Jane Placide smiled 
upon him, and joined her fate to his, and had she lived 
years longer than she did, he might have proved a finer 
man. The rough corners of his character might have been 
polished into roundness. As it was, hov/ever, Edwin 
Forrest stands before us as one who, in spite of all his 
talents and successes, went down to his grave a disap- 
pointed spirit. Marriage with Catharine Sinclair was a 
ghastly failure, both for him and for her. They even took 
their woes into court, and the spectacle was a sad one 
for all but scandal-mongers. 

Jane Placide seems to have taken the trouble between 
Caldwell and the actor with the calmness of a woman 
who cared for neither of the rivals. She was always 
thinking of her art; she wanted to achieve greatness, as 
Anne Oldfield and Peg Woffington had achieved it in 
other days. She recalled the early trials of Siddons. ill- 
health, however, unrelentingly dogged her footsteps. 
She went on slaving at her profession, charming all 
audiences by the sweetness which had entangled the heart 
of Forrest, until death stepped in and claimed her. She 
died in 1835, and is buried in a New Orleans graveyard. 
On a stone above her grace is the inscription: 

" There's not an hour 
Of day or dreamy night but I am with thee ; 
There's not a wind that whispers o'er thy name, 
And not a flower that sleeps beneath the moon 
But in its lines of fragrance tells a tale of thee." 
181 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

Forrest was traveling through Europe when he heard 
of her death. "And so Jane Placide is dead," he wrote 
in his diary. " Her disposition was as lovely as her per- 
son. Heaven lodge and rest her fair soul." It was a 
tender, graceful entry; it showed that all the bitterness of 
disappointed love had departed. Far better than such 
bitterness was the sweet recollection of a woman who 
had been all loveliness. 

Jane Placide is forgotten, save by some stranger who 
may stumble across her grave and read the legend thereon 
in the light of the warm Southern sunshine. There is 
pathetic irony in that inscription now. No one thinks of 
her either by "day or dreamy night." Edwin Forrest, 
the last of his family, sleeps in quaint St. Paul's church- 
yard, in Third Street below Walnut, in the oldest quarter 
of Philadelphia. To the present generation he is only a 
name, a shadow. Thus have passed away two players 
who once swayed the emotions of thousands of theatre- 
goers. 



AN UNCOMPROMISING TORY 



.....4.- 




I 



IX 

AN UNCOMPROMISING TORY 

IF one would see how often the history of Great 
Britain is strangely connected with that of Amer- 
ica, let him turn to the career of that picturesque 
heroine, Flora MacDonald. She proved to be a born 
Tory, did this Scottish woman who fairly bristled with 
belief in the "divine right" of Kings and other archaic 
illusions. Furthermore, she looked upon the patriots of 
the American Revolution as rebels who deserved hanging. 
Yet, despite all her sins, we pardon her, as we always 
pardon the possessors of bravery and beauty. Surely we 
have so far forgotten the bitterness of the War for Inde- 
pendence, in the lapse of a century and a quarter, that 
we can look with kindness on one who risked much, and 
gained little, in the cause of Royalty. 

Flora MacDonald had a sense of chivalry which would 
have done honor even to a man — and man is supposed to 
have the monopoly of that dangerous quality. She felt 
sorry for the distress of a fellow-being; she was loyal to 
the ambitious prince whom so many of her countrymen 
looked upon, not unnaturally, as their rightful King, and 
(what is no less potent in the inner recesses of a woman's 

185 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

heart) she was not insensible to the attractions of a young 
and handsome adventurer. 

Young, handsome, and likewise a reckless adventurer, 
undeniably was Prince Charles Edward, grandson of 
King James II, who came over from France in 1745 to 
plant on Scotch soil the standard of the royal house 
of Stuart. What a flood of romance, by the way, did 
the name of Stuart suggest in the old days, and what a 
host of enthusiasts did it attract to its hopeless cause! 
Pedantic James I, the two Charleses and the bigotted, 
narrow-minded James II, made four of the poorest Kings 
that England ever groaned under, yet they had the saving 
grace, if such it may be called, of always winning for 
themselves and for their family legions of devoted, honest 
adherents. It only goes to show that men may be de- 
ceivers, inconstant, unscrupulous, yet if they represent a 
popular principle they never lack friends, either in 
prosperity or adversity. In this case the principle was 
that the sovereigns of Great Britain and Ireland ruled by 
"divine right," rather than by act of Parliament. 

It was this "divine right" fetich that kept many a 
Scotchman and not a few Englishmen staunch Jacobites 
long after the house of Hanover had been firmly seated on 
the British throne. William and Mary succeeded short- 
sighted James II; then came Queen Anne, the last of 
the Stuart sovereigns, to be followed by King George I 
and King George II, of Hanover; yet, despite the lapse 
of time, thousands of hearts still beat true to the Old 

186 



AN UNCOMPROMISING TORY 

Chevalier (he who called himself James ill), and to the 
Young Pretender. 

So when the latter, otherwise " Bonnie Prince Charlie," 
arrived in Scotland, to seize, if he could, the birthright of 
his ancestors, there was a mighty uprising among the 
Scottish clans. But we all know how, in the end, the 
enthusiasm of the Highlanders and the plottings of the 
English Jacobites, some of whom were intriguing under 
the very nose of phlegmatic King George 11, came to 
naught. The battle of CuUoden, in which the High- 
landers were so disastrously defeated, put an end forever 
to the Stuart dynasty. 

Although the dream of victory had vanished, there yet 
remained one reality. Charles Edward, the head and 
front of the rebellion, was still at large in Scotland, while 
the relentless English government was straining every 
nerve to get hold of the young man, intending to send 
him, after due process of law, to a place where he could 
no longer trouble the peace or sleep of King George II. 
When the government had crushed an enemy irre- 
trievably it liked to complete the work by getting well 
rid of him. If the Prince were captured his head would 
surely pay the forfeit; it was the fortune of war. 

During his struggles to elude the Hanoverian soldiers 
Charles Edward became a desolate wanderer upon the 
Long Island of the Hebrides. He lacked the actual neces- 
sities of life, yet he was as cheerful as if he were sitting 
on the throne of his ancestors. The net was being drawn 

187 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

around him so closely that escape to France seemed al- 
most impossible. At this critical moment Captain O'Neil, 
his Irish companion and Fidus Achates, met Flora Mac- 
Donald at the house of her kinsman, Lord Clanranald. 
Flora was the young daughter of a deceased laird of the 
island of South Uist, and had but recently returned to 
the Hebrides from Edinburgh, where she had been com- 
pleting her education. She was beautiful to look upon, 
with her regular features, superb large eyes, waving 
dark hair, and an expression that denoted both enthu- 
siasm and resolution. Her voice was sweet and low, 
and the harsher accents of the Scottish tongue were not 
to be heard in her speech. Captain O'Neil explained to 
her that the Prince must be gotten out of the Hebrides 
secretly, and he first proposed that she should guide His 
Royal Highness (who was to be disguised as a maid- 
servant) to the island of Skye. 

Miss MacDonald considered the idea "too fantastical" 
to be practicable. "A MacDonald, a Macleod, and a 
Campbell militia are in South Uist in quest of the 
Prince," she said; "a guard is posted at every ferry; no 
person can leave Long Island without a passport, and the 
channel between Uist and Skye is covered with ships of 
war." But when, later, she was taken to the Prince, her 
heart was touched; her prudence vanished; she resolved 
to save him if she could. "Charles was exhausted with 
fatigue and misery; he had become thin and weak, and 
his health was greatly affected by the hardships which he 

188 



AN UNCOMPROMISING TORY 

had undergone. He and O'Neil had lost, indeed, the 
means of personal comfort; they had but two shirts with 
them, and every article of wearing apparel was worn 
out. To a feeble mind the depressed state of Prince 
Charles's affairs, his broken down aspect, and the dangers 
which surrounded him, would have inspired reluctance 
to serve one so desolate. These circumstances, how- 
ever, only softened the resistance which Flora had at first 
made to the scheme suggested for his escape, and renewed 
her desire to aid him." ^ 

Thus it was that Flora set out from the island of Ben- 
becula for Skye on an evening in June of 1746, having 
with her in the open boat six oarsmen, a servant, and the 
Prince, who was disguised as Betsey Burke, "an Irish 
spinning maid." So read the passport which she had 
cleverly obtained from her stepfather. Captain Hugh Mac- 
Donald, who was in charge of the militia in the vicinity. 
"Betsey's" clothes, which had been provided by Lady 
Clanranald, comprised a flowered linen gown, a quilted 
petticoat, and a mantle of clean camlet, made with a 
hood, after the Irish fashion. No one had been merrier 
than the Prince when he had put on the costume: he 
could see humor even amid danger. 

Hardly had the party pulled away from the island be- 
fore a great storm broke over their unprotected heads. 
It seemed as if Nature, like the God of War, was de- 
termined to present a frowning face to poor Charles 

' Memoirs of The Jacobites. 
189 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

Edward. The thunder was deafening; the waves, re- 
sembling liquid mountains, tossed the little boat about as 
if it were a straw; the lightning flashed brilliantly, and 
lighted up the pale but undaunted faces of the voyagers. 
The more the thunder pealed and the lightning played 
across the gloomy sky the more did Flora MacDonald cry 
to the rowers to take courage, and keep at their work. 
The firm tones of her voice, and the calm, undismayed 
bearing of the Prince inspired them to stay at the oars, as 
the tiny craft would sink down into the trough of the 
waters to rise again, the next moment, on the crest of 
another wave. 

Suddenly a voice, resolute and melodious, burst into a 
wild Highland chant. It was the Prince, who now be- 
gan to sing the Scottish songs which he had learned dur- 
ing his recent campaign, and who took this way of 
infusing into the rowers his own fearlessness. Night, 
seeming all the blacker by the contrast of the lightning, 
now enveloped the scene. Still the pleasant voice of 
Charles Edward could be heard, either singing Highland 
music or telling stories and legends of the long-ago. He 
was young, handsome, attractive, (characteristics which 
his disguise could not conceal) nor was it hard to ex- 
plain, from the presence of mind and the bravery which 
he showed at this critical juncture, why he had found so 
many idolaters among the clansmen of Scotland. And 
then his courtly manners towards Flora! He might have 
been sitting next to her in the Palace of Holyrood, for 

190 



AN UNCOMPROMISING TORY 

not once did he relax his winning grace and air of breed- 
ing. No wonder that she already felt for him the chiv- 
alrous devotion of a subject for a beloved sovereign. 

At last the dawn came. The weary mariners were 
near the island of Skye. Here would be temporary 
refuge. But wait! What is that? A band of men 
upon the shore ? They are soldiers! 

The boat is turned away from the land which looked 
so inviting only a minute before. Just in time, too, for 
a shower of bullets whizzes around the occupants. The 
soldiers have fired from the shore. The rowers now 
send their craft along in an easterly direction. In a few 
hours they have made what they hope will prove a safer 
landing. The Prince is concealed under a hollow rock 
upon a dreary beach not far from the house of a certain 
Sir Alexander MacDonald, Laird of Sleite. Yet the Laird 
is a friend to the House of Hanover, and has no wish to 
see Charles Edward on the throne of his ancestors. 
How, therefore, will Flora MacDonald save the young 
adventurer ? 

Some women would not have saved him. But Flora 
is made of different stuff from them. She has mother- 
wit, and she understands human nature. Nor is she in 
any wise daunted when she finds that the hall of Sir 
Alexander's house is filled with British officers who are 
hunting for the Prince as so many cats might seek some 
elusive mouse. Luckily enough Sir Alexander himself is 
not at home; but his wife. Lady MacDonald is there, and 

191 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

to her the girl appeals for aid. Lady MacDonald is not 
proof against the enthusiasm and the beauty of Flora; 
she says nothing to the unsuspecting officers, and even 
goes to the length of sending food to the fugitive on the 
beach, by the hand of the Laird of Kingsburg. In truth, 
Lady MacDonald is in secret sympathy with the Jacobites. 
The sooner, she says, that the Prince gets away from 
such close proximity to the officers the better for his 
royal head, and for his aristocratic neck. 

The Laird, Flora and the Prince hasten off towards 
Kingsburg. They are met by some country-people, who 
fail to recognize "Bonnie Charlie" in the person of the 
lank Irish maiden, Betsey Burke^ When the house of 
the Laird is reached his wife kisses Flora and Betsey in 
hospitable fashion, but she is amazed to find that the 
latter has a suspiciously rough complexion. Can this 
Betsey be a bearded woman ? 

We are agreeably familiar with the end of the story. 
Flora, more and more charmed by the manners and bear- 
ing of the Prince, watches over his safety with unfailing 
devotion until he leaves Portaree. Charles Edward 
kisses her in farewell. "Gentle, faithful maiden," he 
cries; "I hope we shall yet meet in the Palace Royal! " 
That is the last Miss MacDonald will ever see of Charles 
Edward. There will never again be a Palace Royal for 
this descendant of the Stuarts. He will make good his 
escape to France, only to degenerate, as the years glide 
on, into a broken-down libertine. No Stuart will ever 

192 



AN UNCOMPROMISING TORY 

again disturb the peace of the sovereigns of the House of 
Hanover. Better for the fame of Charles Edward had he 
died when leading a forlorn hope at the Battle of Cul- 
loden. 

Flora MacDonald will always think of him with pas- 
sionate admiration, and perhaps with a more tender feel- 
ing. Who shall penetrate the hidden, inscrutable recesses 
of the feminine heart, which even a woman herself sel- 
dom understands ? But Flora must soon have a care for 
her own life. She is arrested, brought to London, and 
shut up in the Tower, on the charge of high-treason in 
aiding and encompassing the flight of the Prince. Her 
future looks dark, but powerful friends, headed by 
Frederick, Prince of Wales, secure her release, and she 
becomes, for a short time, the spoiled darling of London's 
aristocracy. Then she has an audience with King 
George II, the very man whom Charles Edward tried to 
hurl from the English throne. 

" How dared you give assistance to an enemy of the 
crown ?" quizzically asks the King. 

" It was no more than I would have done for your 
Majesty, had you been in a like situation," she answers 
adroitly. 

His Majesty can reproach her no further after such a 
retort, wherein girlish simplicity and Scotch shrewdness 
have so peculiar a combination. She goes back to her 
home triumphantly, in a coach-and-four, and afterwards 
marries Allan MacDonald, son of the Laird of Kingsburg. 

193 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

Two years before the breaking out of the American 
Revolution that most interestingly crusty of philosophers 
and hide-bound of American-haters, Dr. Samuel Johnson, 
visited the very house at Kingsburg in which the Prince 
had taken refuge under the guise of Betsey Burke. The 
good Doctor even had the honor of sleeping in the same 
bed wherein Charles Edward had rested, for one night, 
his young but tired bones. Johnson was not ill-pleased 
to enjoy the distinction. He was a bit of a snob at 
heart; association with Royalty, however remote, always 
charmed him. Perhaps that was why he had no sym- 
pathy with our own country when it was struggling to 
shake off the yoke of Royalty, as represented by the 
House of Hanover. "The Americans," he growled, 
"are a race of convicts, and should be thankful for any- 
thing they get short of hanging! " 

After the collapse of the Rebellion of 1745, and the es- 
cape of the Prince to France, King George II pardoned a 
large number of Jacobites with the understanding that 
they should emigrate to the American colonies. This 
clemency was the cause of the Highland settlement upon 
the banks of Cape Fear River, North Carolina. It occu- 
pied a great space of land of which Fayetteville is now 
the centre. To this Scottish colony came Allan Mac- 
Donald in the year 1775, accompanied by his wife, her 
children, and a number of friends. The son of the old 
Laird of Kingsburg had sailed across the Atlantic to bet- 
ter his fortunes and find peace and contentment in the 

194 



AN UNCOMPROMISING TORY 

New World. But there could be little of peace in a land 
which was about to be convulsed by the throes of a 
mighty struggle. The Revolution was impending; men 
who would have preferred to till the ground, or engage 
in the budding commerce of the infant nation, were often 
obliged to range themselves on the side either of royalists 
or patriots. There could be no alternative, save for 
mean-spirited persons who tried to keep astride of the 
political fence, and hoped to descend, at last, upon the 
winning field. 

There was nothing of the "trimmer" about either 
Allan MacDonald or Flora. They were both staunch 
Tories. Flora MacDonald had risked her life to save 
from imprisonment and death the scion of the House of 
Stuart, and now she was prepared to take almost as great 
a chance in upholding King George III., the grandson of 
Prince Charlie's rival. 

It was not long before the chance came for the couple 
to show their preference. General Donald MacDonald, 
one of Flora's kinsmen, and a veteran who had fought 
on the side of Charles Edward in the battle of Culloden, 
was now a doughty adherent of King George. In the 
spring of 1776, when the delegates to the Continental 
Congress were meditating the untying of the bonds 
which held them to the mother country, Donald Mac- 
Donald sent forth a proclamation calling upon the High- 
landers of North Carolina to join him in opposing the 
"rebels." Thereupon he erected the royal standard at 

195 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

Cross Creek, in that colony. How could Flora Mac- 
Donald resist the call of one who had drawn a sword, 
some thirty years before, in defense of Charles Edward ? 
If her relative could hasten to the support of George 111, 
why should not she ? She saw not the wrongs under 
which the American patriots suffered; she only saw that 
Royalty, ever sacred in her eyes, was attacked. 

In a twinkling the woman's heart swelled with all the 
enthusiasm which had animated it on that day, so long 
ago, when she had promised to save a princely outlaw. 
In her still handsome face was the ardor of past youth; 
in her breast was the old-time bravery. It was not 
enough that Allan MacDonald should join the forces of 
Donald MacDonald: she must go, too, and contribute her 
all towards infusing loyalty into the hearts of her fellow- 
Highlanders. Thus we have a spirited picture of the 
Scotch mother as she moves among the troops with 
words of cheer. It is a picture whose truth was once 
contradicted, but there is every reason to disbelieve the 
contradiction. Flora MacDonald could not have been 
within a hundred miles of soldiers whom she thought to 
be fighting for the right without going to them. The 
only wonder is that she did not insist upon enlisting, like 
some belligerent Amazon. 

Yet all her enthusiasm was to come to naught. As she 
had suffered for her devotion to a prince, so would she 
suffer for her devotion to a king. At the battle of 
Moore's Creek the Highlanders were badly defeated by 

196 



AN UNCOMPROMISING TORY 

the Americans, and among those taken prisoners was 
Allan MacDonald. General Donald MacDonald, who had 
been too ill to take part in the engagement, was igno- 
miniously captured ; he was glad to wave in the air, and 
surrender to some "rebel " officers, his army commission. 
All his proclamations and fulminations against the 
patriots had ended in this humiliating episode. 

Things went badly for Flora MacDonald after the de- 
feat at Moore's Creek. She was out of joint with the 
times: the patriotic Carolinians looked upon her as a 
traitor, and pillaged her plantation, while her husband 
was a prisoner of war. Before Allan MacDonald was re- 
leased she shook the dust of Democratic America from 
her feet, and set sail in a sloop bound for the old country. 
Her husband was to join her later in Scotland, as he did. 
They wanted to end their lives quietly in the Isle of 
Skye. 

There was to be one more adventure for Flora Mac- 
Donald, however, ere she might settle down into a com- 
monplace personage; once more was she to play the 
heroine. During the passage of the sloop across the At- 
lantic a French war-vessel hove into sight and trained her 
guns on the stranger bearing the British flag. There came 
the booming of cannon, the sharp whistling of balls, the 
crashing of timber, as shot and fire came vomiting from 
the Frenchman. The crew of the little sloop were almost 
paralyzed with fright at this sudden onslaught. Why 
should they fight back in return, they cried, only to be 

197 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

sent to the bottom of the ocean for their pains ? Were 
they about to surrender to the enemy ? That seemed the 
only chance of saving themselves. Swish ! How the can- 
nister went hissing over the vessel! A few more min- 
utes of this sort of thing and the sloop must either strike 
her colors or sink forever! 

One person, and a woman at that, preserved her wits 
and her courage. Upon the quarter-deck stood Flora 
MacDonald with flashing eyes and dauntless air. One of 
her arms was broken, and she was bleeding from a 
wound, but her spirit was as firm as ever. Seeing that 
her companions were about to yield, she cried out to 
them to be brave, and that the enemy might still be 
beaten. The crew, first surprised and then stimulated to 
sudden action, now turned the guns of the sloop on the 
Frenchman with such effect that the latter was at last 
driven off. Through all the fierce engagement we can 
hear the clear voice of Flora calling out "Courage! " or 
giving some direction. Such a creature was better fitted 
to play a royal part than were all the kings of the House 
of Stuart. 

Where was the Captain of the sloop during the heat of 
the action? History does not tell us; to Flora alone 
belongs the honor of this engagement. 

On a bleak March day of 1790 an immense crowd of 
Scotch people, some three thousand in all, could be seen 
wending their way slowly and mournfully to the ceme- 
tery of Kilmuir, in the Isle of Skye. A stranger might 

198 



AN UNCOMPROMISING TORY 

have supposed that a Royal personage was about to be 
buried. But it was a friend of Royalty, rather than 
Royalty itself, which reposed in the plain coffin in front 
of the rustic cortege. Flora MacDonald was dead — and 
her body had for a shroud the very sheets in which 
Prince Charlie had slept on the night he had taken refuge 
at Kingsburg. It had been Flora's own wish that this 
should be her covering. She had lived to be an old 
woman, but one vision never faded from her memory. 
It was the vision of a handsome young fellow, the 
picture of grace and chivalry, who had kissed her as he 
cried: "I hope we shall yet meet in the Palace Royal." 
It was well for the romantic quality of her enthusiasm 
that she never met the Prince in after years. Old age, 
intemperance, and profligacy, as combined in the person 
of her one-time hero, would not have proved alluring. 
Assuredly, had she obtained a latter-day view of this 
sovereign who might have been, she would never have 
been buried in that peculiar shroud. 

In North Carolina the name of Flora MacDonald still 
calls up picturesque suggestions. She tried hard to worst 
us in our struggle for liberty, but she was a woman in a 
thousand. Let us be gallant enough to forgive her, and 
to hold her character in admiration. 

"The town of Fayetteville," writes Mrs. Ellet, "covers 
the former metropolis of the Highland clans. It was 
surrounded by a sandy, barren country, sprinkled with 

199 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

lofty pines, and the American iiome of Flora MacDonald 
stood in the midst of this waste. The place of her 
residence has been destroyed by fire; but her memory is 
still cherished in that locality, and the story of her ro- 
mantic enthusiasm, intrepidity, and disinterested self- 
devotion, has extended into lands where in life she was 
unknown." 



200 



THE GHOSTS OF GRAEME PARK 



X 

THE GHOSTS OF GRAEME PARK 

GO out to the bustling village of Ambler, in Mont- 
gomery County, Pennsylvania, drive back into 
the country, in an almost easterly direction, for 
a distance of three or four miles, turn on an old-fashioned 
pike road, ask a great many questions from the natives, 
and circle around still to the eastward for a couple more 
miles — and then, if you are very brilliant, and have a 
largely developed bump of locality, you may find your- 
self looking at Graeme Park, the old home of Sir William 
Keith, one of the early Colonial Governors of Pennsyl- 
vania. The house, which now seems neither large nor 
imposing, is nothing more than an old-fashioned, plain 
brick structure. It suggests, for a human prototype, 
a once respectable gentleman who is slowly sinking to 
his grave in a state of fast-increasing shabbiness. You 
wonder whether you have not taken a deal of trouble and 
traveled a long distance, only to be disappointed. 
"Relics," you think, "are not always what they are 
thought to be!" You begin to feel a sense of injury. 
You have been taken advantage of by some one. 

But if you enter the residence, and peer into its nooks 
and corners, you are soon in the best of humors, if you 

203 



v 

ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

possess any power of imagination or any spirit of ro- 
mance. Tlie rooms are bare, to be sure, and there are 
few signs remaining of former luxury, yet the whole in- 
terior has an air of the past that proves delightfully at- 
tractive in that melancholy, pensive way that will be ap- 
preciated by all who love to roam through a deserted 
home. In yonder dining-room, with the curious fire- 
place, plump Benjamin Franklin has more than once 
grown pleasant over a glass of Madeira. In the wain- 
scoted drawing-room some of Philadelphia's greatest 
belles have laughed and chatted with elegant beaux 
habited in rich velvet suits and silken stockings. In the 
great bedroom on the second floor Sir William Keith has 
slept uneasily as he saw, in his dreams, some bailiff 
breaking into the place to arrest him for debt. During 
a period of many years the now time-worn roof gave 
shelter, and the several hosts dispensed hospitality, to 
what was best in the social and political life of old 
Philadelphia. When we wander through the second- 
story, now used for a granary, and look out of the anti- 
quated windows, we can fancy that we see that wonder- 
ful glass coach-and-four of Sir William's, which afforded 
such food for gossip to the farmers of the neighborhood. 
It rattles up to the front door, the proprietor alights, and 
comes stalking into the house. We can even imagine 
that there steals forth from the shelter of a neighboring 
sycamore-tree a seedy-looking individual who holds in 
his hand an unpaid bill, and who wonders whether he 

204 



THE GHOSTS OF GRAEME PARK 

had better not wait to present it until the distinguished 
debtor has been put into mellow mood by a copious din- 
ner. Surely, we say to ourselves, so interesting a house 
as this should contain a few well-regulated ghosts who 
walk through its deserted rooms at the mystic hour of 
midnight. Midnight is the accepted time for the prom- 
enade of spirits. 

We ask the present owners of the property if they 
have ever detected any of these spirits making merry in 
the place. They smile and shake their heads in the 
negative. They, and their ancestors, the Penroses, have 
lived within a stone's throw of the old mansion for a 
hundred years, but never have any of them come across 
the faintest suggestion of a departed denizen of Graeme 
Park. So we must bring our own imagination into play 
to people the house with ghosts. Nor is it a difficult task. 
If Sir William Keith himself does not nightly revisit the 
place and flit from room to room in a weird endeavor to 
escape his creditors, then never let us put trust again in 
the respectable belief that any house of more than a cen- 
tury in age must be haunted. 

Sir William was a fine example of the eighteenth cen- 
tury British aristocrat who drank his two quarts of wine 
at dinner, lived on the fat of the land — always greatly in 
excess of his income — and then, after there was no more 
money in the exchequer, died in poverty and obscurity. 
There were not a few such gentlemen who came to 
Pennsylvania in the old days and greatly shocked the 

205 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

staid Quaker element by the lavishness of their house- 
holds and the recklessness of their behavior. For while 
many a Friend in Philadelphia had a fondness for the 
good things of the table, and was not above sipping his 
Madeira on occasion, he could never forgive any one 
who spent money foolishly. The Quaker was the last 
man on earth to run up bills which he could not pay: he 
never trained for the almshouse. When he could not 
afford turtle, he did without it. 

Sir William Keith was a Scotch baronet of noble 
lineage. While he was not at all successful in that im- 
po''tant art of making "both ends meet," he possessed 
another art which stood him in good stead — that of win- 
ning friends to his side by courtly manners and the pleas- 
ant, if not altogether high-minded faculty of being "all 
things to all men." He had a certain magnetic power, 
as we would say in these days, and he could put at ease 
any one who came into his company, from the patrician 
to the meanest laborer. After having held some impor- 
tant position in the American colonies under the British 
Government, from which he was removed on the acces- 
sion of George I, he drifted from Virginia to Phila- 
delphia, and then secured the appointment of Deputy 
Governor of Pennsylvania. He brought his family over 
from England to the Quaker City, in 1717, after borrow- 
ing money for the expenses of the voyage, and soon 
built for himself a residence (the house of which we 
have already spoken) in Horsham Township, Mont- 

206 



THE GHOSTS OF GRAEME PARK 

gomery County. From that time Sir William dispensed 
a lavish hospitality at his new country seat. Many were 
the Philadelphians who were glad to accept of it, and to 
admire, in return, his beautiful stepdaughter, Mistress 
Ann Diggs. 

Ann Diggs was the daughter of Sir William's wife by 
a former marriage. She was soon married to Dr. 
Thomas Graeme, a kinsman of her stepfather's, and con- 
tinued to live under the step-paternal roof. As the years 
sped onward, Sir William fell sadly into debt; his hospi- 
tality cost him dear; he returned to England and finished 
his once brilliant career by dying, in 1749, an imprisoned 
debtor in the Old Bailey. The fawning and cringing 
gentlemen who had so often feasted at his board had, ere 
this, quite forgotten him, unless it might be to refer in 
tones of contempt to a man who had spent money not 
wisely, but too well. We eat a spendthrift's dinners, 
and pat him on the back for his champagne and terrapin, 
but when the bailiff stands upon his door-step we turn 
our faces the other way. Poor Sir William must have 
often philosophized upon this sad fact as he looked at 
the iron gratings of the Old Bailey, and thought with 
bitterness of the Philadelphians who had been only too 
glad to doff their hats to him in the era of his prosperity. 
Little marvel, then, if his spirit returned to his old country- 
place in Montgomery County, to tread lightly through 
the scenes of his former grandeur. 

After the death of Sir William we find Dr. Thomas 

207 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

Graeme and his wife in possession of the Keith home- 
stead, which has now been christened Graeme Park, 
where they give charitable shelter to Lady Keith, the 
widow of the unfortunate baronet. Dr. Graeme was a 
canny Scotch physician, who contrived to build up a 
large practice for himself in Philadelphia. As he grew 
old and health failed, he lived more and more at Graeme 
Park, and devoted himself to the care of Elizabeth, his 
youngest and favorite daughter. Fragile, pale, reflect- 
ive, and at the same time comely to behold, the girl was 
just the one to have a romantic career. And she had it; 
her whole life was romantic from the time that she fell 
in love with an unnamed Philadelphian until she died, 
an old woman, in the house of a friend in the neigh- 
borhood of the Graeme Park which she had loved so 
well. 

Of Elizabeth's unfortunate love affair we know little or 
nothing except that we are led to believe that the swain 
proved unworthy. Perhaps he jilted her. Who can say ? 
She was attractive and talented, but women of attractions 
and talents had been jilted before that time. Be that as 
it may, we are informed that Miss Graeme went to Scot- 
land to try, if possible, to forget the lover; and that to 
relieve her mind of its burden of grief she translated the 
whole of Telemachus into English verse. That was a 
solace in which the modern belle, who never sickens in 
the good old fashion from disappointed affection, would 
hardly be likely to indulge, despite the fact that the 

208 



THE GHOSTS OF GRAEME PARK 

"new woman" is supposed to be far more intellectual 
than her sisters of past generations. 

Elizabeth, however, was but human, after all. On her 
return from abroad she took the place of her mother, 
now dead, as the mistress of Graeme Park, and aided her 
father to attract to that seat all who had any pretensions 
to literary proficiency or fashion. At the table of father 
and daughter oftentimes sat such guests as the lovable 
and Reverend Mr. White, afterwards Bishop of Pennsyl- 
vania, Elias Boudinot, Dr. Witherspoon, Richard Stock- 
ton, and a host of others whose names were to go down 
into history. Then the girl — now a woman of thirty- 
three — so far forgot her first love as to yield her heart to 
a young Scottish adventurer of three and twenty, who 
affected a very strong sympathy with the intellectual 
pursuits of the hostess of Graeme Park. The youth 
was one Hugh Henry Ferguson; and despite his want 
of years he had a keen appreciation of the money bags 
and the landed property of Dr. Graeme. 

So the two were married, albeit in strict secrecy. As 
it was a forgone conclusion that Dr. Graeme would not 
approve, the plan of young Ferguson was " marriage 
first, confession afterwards." But when Ferguson pro- 
posed that the confession should come from his wife, 
who continued to live at Graeme Park, that poor lady 
shuddered at the thought. Although Dr. Graeme had 
been a fond father, there was no telling how the old gen- 
tleman might take this news. The bride in very fear 

209 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

refused to say a word. "Then if you tell not your 
father yourself," cried the groom, who was anxious to 
make peace with the good Doctor and his banker's 
account as soon as possible, "/shall tell him! " 

Thus adjured, there was nothing left for Mrs. Ferguson 
to do save to make the confession. Upon a cool autumn 
morning of 1772, as the father was taking his daily walk 
through the Park about an hour before breakfast, the 
poor woman (for poor is any woman who must tell how 
she has thrown herself away on a worthless fortune- 
hunter) crawled down-stairs and waited for Graeme's 
return. 

"I sat on the bench at the window," she afterwards 
wrote, "and watched him coming up the avenue. It 
was a terrible task to perform. I was in agony; at every 
step he was approaching nearer! " 

Then a strange, uncanny thing happened. As the 
frightened daughter sat near the window, trembling at 
the thought that another minute would bring her face to 
face with the Doctor, he suddenly reeled, stretched out 
his hands, as if for aid, and then fell dead upon the path. 
When his daughter reached him, the old man was beyond 
the hearing of any confession she might have made. It 
was well, perhaps, that he should die at this tragic 
moment. It almost seemed as if Providence had inter- 
posed to prevent a wretched scene between parent and 
child. 

Mrs. Ferguson was plunged in grief at the Doctor's 

210 



THE GHOSTS OF GRAEME PARK 

death, though her husband was, no doubt, more recon- 
ciled. Did not the worthy Graeme have some gold and 
silver to leave behind ? And had not Mr. Ferguson the 
true old-world scent for a legacy ? After the father 
had been buried with much honor, the daughter and 
her young husband settled down to dwell at Graeme 
Park, as if they were about to imitate the "once upon a 
time" lovers of a fairy tale, who always end by "living 
happily forever after." But the breaking out of the 
Revolution put an end to all the dreams which Elizabeth 
Ferguson had enjoyed. They were dreams of books, 
conjugal love, Arcadian pleasures, and elegant idleness. 
The peace of many an American home was destroyed by 
this bitter struggle, and Graeme Park was to prove no 
exception. 

Ferguson was not slow in declaring himself a Tory, 
notwithstanding that he had an American wife and was 
being supported by American money. To him the 
patriots were merely misguided "rebels," only worthy 
of execution, and he saw no reason why the "insurrec- 
tion " should not be quelled in a few months. He en- 
gaged in the British service, therefore, and gradually 
drifted away from his wife, to die, at last, fighting in the 
Flemish wars. Thus Mrs. Ferguson lost her young hus- 
band, and never learned to see that she had gained by 
the deprivation. 

Poor woman! She had a great abundance of what 
old-fashioned authors called "sentiment." She dearly 

211 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

loved her own country, but she quailed before the horrors 
of war. While many a fair American was urging her 
relatives to resist the aggressions and the arms of Britain, 
be the cost and the flow of blood what they might, 
Elizabeth Ferguson's one idea was to stop the carnage, 
and bring peace between the colonies and the mother- 
country. No wonder, then, that she did some very 
foolish things, out of mistaken zeal, and brought down 
upon herself the wrongful suspicion of being a traitor. 

She loved animals of all kinds, were they birds, or 
dogs, or the beasts of the field. Why then, she reasoned, 
should man, the highest of all the animals, be subjected 
to the calamities of sword, fire, powder and bullets ? 

When the Rev. Mr. Duche, a faint-hearted Philadelphia 
clergyman, wrote to Washington suggesting that the 
cause of Independence was hopeless, and asking him 
to compromise with the British, Mrs. Ferguson under- 
took to be the bearer of the letter. Here, she thought, 
was a chance for her to bring this wretched conflict to a 
close. But Washington became as angry as it was 
possible for a man of so well-governed a temperament to 
be: he openly rebuked Duche, and plainly showed that 
he was nettled at the unseemly activity of the lady. 

Under a date in October of 1777 Washington wrote to 

the President of Congress: "I yesterday, through the 

hands of Mrs. Ferguson, of Graham [stc] Park, received a 

letter of a very curious and extraordinary nature from 

Mr. Duche, which I have thought proper to transmit to 

212 



THE GHOSTS OF GRAEME PARK 

Congress. To this ridiculous, illiberal performance, I 
made a short reply by desiring the bearer of it, if she 
should hereafter by any accident meet with Mr. Duche, 
to tell him I should have returned it unopened, if I had 
had any idea of the contents; observing at the same time 
that I highly disapproved the intercourse she seemed to 
have been carrying on, and expected it would be dis- 
continued. Notwithstanding the author's assertion, I 
cannot but suspect that the measure did not originate 
with him; and that he was induced to it by the hope of 
establishing his interest and peace more effectually with 
the enemy." 

Duche afterwards went to England. More than five 
years later, in seeking to pave a way for his return to 
America, the clergyman said, in an apologetic letter to 
Washington: " I cannot say a word in vindication of my 
conduct but this, that I had been for months before 
distressed with continual apprehensions for you and all 
my friends without the British lines. 1 looked upon all 
as gone; or that nothing could save you, but rescinding 
the Declaration of Independence. Upon this ground 
alone I presumed to speak; not to advise an act of base 
treachery; my soul would have recoiled from the thought; 
not to surrender your army, or betray the righteous cause 
of your country, but, at the head of that army, support- 
ing and supported by them, to negotiate with Britain for 
our constitutional rights." 

Duche returned to Philadelphia in 1792, and paid a 

213 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

visit to President Washington, who " manifested gener- 
ous sensibility " on perceiving that the poor gentleman 
had suffered from a slight stroke of paralysis. 

Nothing daunted by her failure with the Duche letter, 
and still intent upon her ambition to end the war, Mrs. 
Ferguson was sentimental enough to enter into the 
schemes of Governor George Johnstone, one of the com- 
missioners deputed by authority of Parliament to settle, 
if he could, the differences between America and Great 
Britain. "I should like," said Johnstone, in his uninten- 
tionally arrogant way, "to secure the influence of 
General Reed. If you should see him I should like you 
to convey the idea that if he could, conformably to his 
conscience and views of things, exert his influence to 
settle this dispute, he might command ten thousand 
guineas, and the best post under the English Govern- 
ment." 

"I question," answered Mrs. Ferguson, "whether 
General Reed would not look upon such a mode of 
obtaining his influence as a bribe." 

"No bribe, my dear Madame," said Johnstone, confi- 
dently. "Such a mode of proceeding is common in all 
such negotiations, and one may honorably make it a man's 
interest to step forth in Britain's cause." 

In fine, Governor Johnstone was offering a bait which 
he himself, as a man of honor, would not have consid- 
ered for one second. Mrs. Ferguson was at last induced, 

rather against her will, to ask for an interview with Reed. 

J?14 



THE GHOSTS OF GRAEME PARK 

This she readily secured. When she had repeated to the 
General the proposition of Johnstone, the American re- 
plied: "I am not worth purchasing; but, such as lam, 
the King of Great Britain is not rich enough to do it!" 
The remark passed into history; from that moment any 
attempt at compromise proved unpopular, and was re- 
garded as treason. 

It soon leaked out that Mrs. Ferguson was the woman 
who had sought to "tamper" with General Reed, and the 
patriotic newspapers were quick to hold her up to public 
scorn. Congress took notice of the matter; the unfor- 
tunate mediator was reduced to tears. "I own I find it 
hard," she said plaintively, "knowing the uncorruptness 
of my own heart to be held out to the public as a tool to 
the [British] commissioners. But the impression is now 
made, and it is too late to recall it." Worse than all, it 
was even hinted that she had played her thankless part 
in order that her husband — whom she still loved with an 
ardor which he hardly deserved— might gain promotion 
in the British service. Then Johnstone, to cap the climax, 
tried to wriggle out of the whole matter by proclaiming 
on his return to England that he had been misquoted and 
misunderstood. It is but an example of the way in 
which many of the British treated the Americans, men 
and women alike, through the continuance of the whole 
struggle. 

"Among the many mortifying insinuations that have 
been hinted on the subject," wailed the distracted Mrs. 

315 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

Ferguson, "none has so sensibly affected me as an inti- 
mation that some thought I acted a part, in consequence 
of certain expectations of a post, or some preferment 
from Mr. Johnstone, to be conferred on the person 
dearest to me on earth. On that head I shall say no 
more, but leave it to any person of common sense to de- 
termine, if I had any views of that kind, whether I should, 
in so full and solemn a manner, call in question what 
Mr. Johnstone has asserted in the House of Commons." 

All of which shows that a woman, particularly one 
who knows more of books than of men, should never 
attempt to play the politician. Yet Mrs. Ferguson, who 
was looked upon with suspicion by many of her coun- 
trymen, had spun with her own hands a quantity of 
linen which she directed to be made into shirts for the 
American prisoners who had been brought into Philadel- 
phia after the battle of Germantown. 

There is something sad and pathetic in the end of the 
poor lady. She lost a great part of her fortune; and lost, 
too, the privilege of a home amid the trees and fields of 
Graeme Park. The two romances of her life— her love, 
first for an unworthy lover, and then for an unworthy 
husband — were sad indeed, and she was not sorry when 
the end came. She died in the house of a charitable 
friend near Graeme Park, in February of 1801. Surely 
her gentle spirit must pay an occasional visit to the home 
of her father. 

Of the history of Graeme Park since its occupancy by 

216 



THE GHOSTS OF GRAEME PARK 

Elizabeth Ferguson there is nothing that needs the retell- 
ing. The old mansion itself, now sinking into decay, 
furnishes a chronicle and moral of the rise and fall of 
family grandeur. If we look at the unfurnished rooms 
we realize how quickly human glory may fade away. 
The place is a sermon in stone more strikingly illustrative 
than the discourses of a hundred ecclesiastics. But it is 
pleasant to reflect, if we are fond of the uncanny, that 
ghosts must frequent the house, gliding in and out the 
silent chambers and peering gloomily at one another. 
What a shadowy group to encounter! The elegantly- 
dressed Sir William Keith, his dainty wife, shrewd-eyed 
Dr. Graeme (if anything so ethereal as a spirit can look 
shrewd of eye), dignified Madame Graeme, unhappy 
Elizabeth Ferguson and her scheming Tory husband. 
"Scarcely any house in the colonies," observes Thomas 
Allen Glenn in his Colonial Mansions, "had a career 
more eventful, or sheltered at various times a greater 
number of distinguished persons, some of whom died 
rich and great, whilst others, equally talented, but less 
favored by that fickle jade, fortune, perished in obscurity 
and wretched poverty." 



217 



WASHINGTON AS A WOOER 




If 



XI 

WASHINGTON AS A WOOER 

TO the generality of Americans George Washing- 
ton — yes, let us be frank enough to confess it — 
seems to have been a highly virtuous but utterly 
passionless figure in history, resourceful, great, even 
superhuman, but cold as the statue of some classic hero. 
We are prone to forget that the "Pater Patriae," as our 
great-grandfathers w^ere fond of calling him, had his 
affections and emotions, like humbler persons. We often 
forget, too, that he had a youth, much as all others have 
had a youth, with its fancies, its illusions and its little 
romances. It is a pity to put him on too high a pedestal, 
for thereby we are only turning one of the most interest- 
ing men in the annals of the Anglo-Saxon world into an 
unnatural, stupid automaton who always did the right 
thing in the right place simply because he could not help 
himself. The more human we find George Washington 
to be, the more strongly do his self-control and honesty 
of purpose stand out before us in a clear, powerful 
light. 

Yet it is only when we study the early life of Wash- 
ington that we get satisfactory glimpses of this humanity. 
Then we detect the inner character of the man before he 

221 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

has enveloped himself in a mask of impenetrable will- 
power. Later on we may catch a brief glance of his 
impetuosity, so often curbed or hidden altogether, when 
he is swearing like a trooper at General Lee on the field 
of Monmouth, or angrily striking a blundering artillery- 
man with the flat of his sword in a marsh near Gulf 
Mills. But these are only occasional flashes of fire, if 
we would see George Washington in a truly romantic 
guise we must take him at the susceptible age when he 
was wont to sigh, like any other swain, for pretty maid- 
ens who frowned upon his love. 

For the matter of that, as the late Paul Leicester Ford 
has truly pointed out, "during the whole of his life 
Washington had a soft heart for women, and especially 
for good-looking ones," and was more at ease with 
them than in his relations with his own sex. But as 
time went on he placed a break, as it were, upon his 
sensations, so that he could calmly write, not so very 
long before his death: "Love may and therefore ought 
to be under the guidance of reason, for although we 
cannot avoid first impressions we may assuredly place 
them under guard." 

This copy-book maxim was one that the future " Pater 
Patriae " did not always follow out in the days of his 
youth, when he was ready to offer his hand and heart to 
the first pretty girl who chanced to cross his path. Per- 
haps more than one of those girls lived to reproach her- 
self, in after years, that she had not smiled on the man 

222 



WASHINGTON AS A WOOER 

who was to occupy one of the proudest positions in 
history. 

One day, when still a schoolboy in Virginia, young 
George was caught " romping" with "one of the largest 
girls " in the class, while at the mature age of sixteen he 
was "hopelessly" in love with a "Lowland Beauty," as 
he called her, whose name has never been authoritatively 
learned. " My place of residence," he wrote to a corres- 
pondent from the plantation of his patron, Lord Fairfax, 
"is at present at His Lordship's, where I might, was my 
heart disengaged, pass my time very pleasantly, as there's 
a very agreeable young lady lives in the same house 
(Colonel George Fairfax's wife's sister), but as that's 
only adding fuel to fire it makes me the more uneasy, 
for by often and unavoidably being in company with 
her revives my former Passion for your Low Land Beauty, 
whereas was I to live retired from young women I might 
in some measure eleviate [sic] my sorrows by burying 
that chast [sic] and troublesome Passion in the grave of 
oblivion or eternal forgetfulness, for as I am very well as- 
sured that's the only antidote or remedy that 1 shall be 
releivd [relieved] by or only recess that can administer 
any cure or help to me, as I am well convinced was I 
ever to attempt anything I should only get a denial which 
would be only adding grief to uneasiness." 

How charmingly quaint and old-fashioned is this wail 
from the heart; how like is it to the budding love-sick- 
ness of any other healthy lad, and therefore how attract- 

223 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

ive it seems. Yet through it all shines, albeit faintly, 
that prudent spirit which in after years would help to 
make Washington one of the most careful men of a not 
too careful age. If he can only get away from feminine 
society, he thinks, he might forget the "Lowland Beauty." 
But as he is not yet much of a philosopher he goes on 
loving the "Beauty" until some other belle usurps her 
place in his roving affections. He even takes to reading 
and writing poetry and pens in a book these heated, 
unpunctuated lines: 

" O ye gods, why should my Poor Resistless Heart 

Stand to oppose thy might and Power 
At last surrender to Cupid's feathered Dart 

And now Lays Bleeding every Hour 
For her that's Pityless of my grief and Woes 

And will not on me Pity take 
He sleep amongst my most inveterate Foes 

And with gladness never wish to wake 
In deluding sleepings let my Eyelids close 

That in an enraptured Dream I may 
In a soft lulUng sleep and gentle repose 

Possess those joys denied by Day." 

At the same fervid period he inscribes an acrostic upon 
the fair name of Frances Alexander, the daughter of a 
planter living in the neighborhood of Mount Vernon. It 
starts off impetuously: 

" From your bright, sparkling eyes I was undone ; 
Rays, you have ; more transparent than the sun." 

Fancy the august President Washington, and try to 

224 



WASHINGTON AS A WOOER 

compare him to the ardent Romeo who sighs and talks 
about "transparent rays" or "bright, sparkling eyes"! 
It is only by such glimpses as these that we learn to 
know the true Washington, and to admire him all the 
more because of his undercurrent of strong, fibrous 
humanity. 

At the age of nineteen our hero had so far forgotten 
several of his earlier loves as to cultivate another " hope- 
less" and equally unrequited passion for Miss Betsey 
Fauntleroy, a young Virginian of undoubted charm. Miss 
Betsey, indeed, was so cruel as to present the poor fellow 
with the proverbial mitten, and to accompany the un- 
welcome gift, no doubt, with kindly remarks of a sis- 
terly but wholly unamorous nature. Yet Washington, 
who had even then the quality of obstinacy, determined 
not to be discouraged. He resolved to try Mistress 
Fauntleroy again, and to shake, if possible, that obduracy 
which would make him miserable for life if she perse- 
vered in it. So he wrote a letter to one of her family, 
explaining that he had been suffering from pleurisy, but 
promising himself the pleasure of once more storming 
the Fauntleroy fortress. " I propose, as soon as 1 recover 
my strength," he said, " to wait on Miss Betsey in hopes 
of a revocation of the former cruel sentence, and see if I 
can meet with any alteration in my favor." 

Miss Betsey was not, however, to be won over. She 
refused George Washington, and he was left to console 
himself by gazing on some other pretty face. This he 

225 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

did, in short order, and soon found that he contrived to 
keep quite cheerful in spite of the hard-heartedness of 
the young lady, it is even said that he went so far in 
his amours as to fall desperately in love with the wife of 
his friend, George William Fairfax, it is probable, how- 
ever, that his intimacy with Mistress Fairfax was per- 
fectly innocent, and went no further than the respectful 
homage which he always paid, even after his marriage, 
to a handsome woman. ^ 

The most earnest of all Washington's love affairs, 
saving the one which made him the husband of Martha 
Custis, was that of which the elegant Mary Philipse, the 
sister of Mrs. Beverley Robinson, was the unresponsive 
heroine. It was in 1756, when he was twenty-four years 
old, and rejoicing in a new-made military glory, that he 
fell a victim — so, at least, says Dame Tradition — to the 
charms of this lady. He had first electrified Virginia by 
his now famous expedition against the French, and his 
defense of Fort Necessity ; afterwards the young officer 
had behaved with the greatest bravery during the terrible 
defeat of General Braddock near Fort Duquesne. All the 
colonies had rung with accounts of his gallantry, which 
seemed all the more conspicuous because it showed out 
to the astonished world in strange contrast to the 
cowardice of many of the English regular troops. Poor 
Braddock, like the narrow-minded general that he was, 
had affected to despise the provincial soldiers, and to 

• Vide The True George Washington. 
226 



WASHINGTON AS A WOOER 

boast of what his Englishmen would do when the time 
came for action against the French and Indians. But 
when that time did come, it was the provincials who had 
the most nerve; the English ran "like sheep pursued by 
dogs." Washington himself rode here, there, and every- 
where trying to help the officers in bringing order out of 
panic, as the bullets whistled merrily around him. When 
he returned unhurt to Virginia his friends declared that he 
must lead a charmed life, in thus escaping from the 
dangers of the wilderness, while an eloquent clergyman 
predicted that God, in having preserved the hero, was 
intending him for greater service to his country in the 
future. Many a story was told of the youth, during the 
winter after the massacre near Fort Duquesne, as the 
planters sat smoking near their blazing fires, and the 
wind, sounding like the cries of the Indians who had 
fallen upon the soldiers, came screaming down the great 
chimneys. Children listened as their fathers related how 
Washington had often warned Braddock to beware of 
ambuscades; how the General had scouted the very 
thought that his precious English regulars would be 
frightened by "rascally" Indians; how he had sneered, 
too, when wily Benjamin Franklin had ventured to say 
that it was no safe thing for a long, thin, unprotected 
column of soldiers to wind through pathless forests, with 
hostile redskins hovering near. Then the planters would 
lower their voices, and the children would shudder with 
a sort of painful pleasure, while the melancholy sequel to 

227 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

all this warning had recital in dramatic tones. As the 
troops marched bravely through the woods to capture 
Duquesne they were fallen upon by Indians and French 
hidden in dangerous ravines, and many of the English 
were slaughtered as if they had been rats in a trap. Then 
the story-tellers, stirring up the flaming logs, would 
describe the wounding of Braddock, his pathetic 
despair as he saw, when too late, that the day was lost 
by his own rashness — and then his death, followed by a 
forest burial with Washington reading the service of the 
Church of England. It made a fine tale. Many a 
little chap took his candle, and went up to his cold room 
in fear, trembling as he fancied that the wind without 
was nothing less than an army of Indians waiting to 
break into the house, to tomahawk the whole family. 

It was the prestige resulting from this bravery under 
Braddock that caused Washington to be treated with 
welcome civilities during a trip he made to Boston on 
horseback in 1756. The young Colonel was now com- 
mandei -in-chief of the provincial troops of Virginia, and 
he journeyed to Boston to interview General Shirley on 
some military business. On his way he tarried in New 
York, where he was lavishly entertained by Beverley 
Robinson, one of his friends who was to develop into 
a Tory after the breaking out of the Revolution because 
he would disapprove of independence. 

No one now had a thought of Revolution or independ- 
ence. All Americans were good loyalists, and Colonel 

228 



WASHINGTON AS A WOOER 

Washington drank daily to the health of old King George 
II, as fervently as did the most hide-bound Briton. 
And when Mr. Robinson lifted his glass at dinner, with 
the accompanying sentiment of "To His Majesty," 
Washington could not foretell that in less than twenty 
years he would himself be engaged in a life-and-death 
struggle with the grandson of this self-same "Majesty." 

One thing, however, the Colonel did see, and that very 
plainly. There sat at the Robinson table Miss Mary 
Philipse, the sister of the hostess, and as she was both 
young and handsome, with a fascinating manner wherein 
dignity and cordiality had peculiar mixture, the Virginian 
found an occasional look at her face, and a gallant remark 
dropped in her ear now and then, a very pleasant occu- 
pation. Miss Philipse, in turn, admired the fine martial 
bearing of this tall militia officer. She was quite willing 
that he should say complimentary things to her, particu- 
larly when he reinforced them by bows of the most 
scrupulous good breeding. She appreciated breeding, 
for she was the daughter of Frederick Philipse, lord of 
the manor of Philipseborough, and had been brought up 
in a manner befitting a girl who seemed destined to play 
a brilliant social part in the colonies. 

For the — was it the tenth or the twentieth — time in 
his life Washington was completely, "hopelessly" in 
love. The charms of Mary Philipse were too much for 
his equanimity. He was obliged to push on at once to 
Boston, but he resolved that he would pay a visit under 

229 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

the hospitable roof-tree of the Robinsons on his return 
journey to Virginia. He was soon back in New York, 
and there is a legend which says that on a certain after- 
noon he sat in deep converse with the charmer long after 
it was time for the Robinson servants to light the candles. 
Did he propose to her in the twilight ? Was he refused ? 
To these questions the legend answers "Yes." At last 
the Colonel rode away, and never saw Miss Philipse 
again until she had become the wife of Captain Roger 
Morris, of the British Army. After Washington had 
reached Virginia a friend wrote to him that if he wished 
to win Miss Philipse he should hurry North as there was 
"a rival in the field." But he did not ride back to New 
York. Probably he knew the exertion would be useless. 
The after years of Mary Morris were in almost tragic 
contrast to those of the man whom she was believed to 
have refused. Roger Morris remained loyal to the 
British Army during the Revolution, and his wife, who 
clung to his fortunes, or rather his misfortunes, was 
attainted for treason. She died in England when ninety- 
six years old, many years after the remains of Washing- 
ton had been consigned to the tomb. It is interesting, if 
somewhat idle, to speculate as to what would have hap- 
pened had Mary Philipse married George Washington. 
She was a Tory by birth and instinct, and she was like- 
wise a woman who exerted a strong influence over those 
with whom she was brought into association. It has 
been hinted that had she been the wife of the Virginian 

230 



WASHINGTON AS A WOOER 

she might have turned him into a Royalist, and thus 
changed the pages of history. Yet to have altered the 
convictions of such a man, and swerved him from what 
he thought the path of duty, would have required a 
power which, in all probability, no woman in the colo- 
nies possessed. For, as any student of masculine human 
nature will admit, it is one thing for a strong man to fall 
in love with a pretty face, and quite another thing for 
the same man to live under the dominion of the same 
pretty face. " Washington could not have been z traitor 
[i. e., a patriot] with such a wife as Aunt Morris," said 
one of her nephews, more than half a century ago. But 
we beg leave to disagree with this uncompromising 
Tory. 

After having been refused by more than one American, 
it is a pleasure to find Washington in the role of a suc- 
cessful lover with the Widow Custis. The only wonder 
is that a young fellow who possessed so keen an admi- 
ration for the fair sex should not have been accepted pre- 
viously by a " Lowland Beauty," a Betsey Fauntleroy or 
a Mary Philipse. However, we know that the gallant 
Colonel had plain sailing into the heart of Martha Custis. 
Perhaps experience had made him wiser. 

Martha Washington began life as Martha Dandridge, 
the daughter of a good family which long before her 
birth had emigrated into the colony of Virginia. At the 
early age of sixteen she was one of the belles of Will- 
iamsburg, the capital of the colony ; at seventeen she had 

231 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

married Colonel Daniel Parke Custis, a prosperous planter 
on the banks of the Pamunkey River. She was soon left 
a widow with a fine fortune for consolation. This for- 
tune she managed with great business skill, considering 
that she lived in an age when women were supposed to 
know nothing about business. Her other worldly pos- 
sessions included two fine children and unmistakable 
good looks. She now had what the old-fashioned 
chronicler poetically terms "the full bloom of beauty." 
Her neighbors soon began to ask themselves, with much 
wise nodding of heads, whether the chatelaine of the 
"White House" would not soon look around for an- 
other helpmate who would be glad to manage her 
estate. 

The months rolled on, and still Madame Custis re- 
mained single. At last, in 1758, a tall, imposing officer, 
attired in military undress, and accompanied by a body- 
servant, crossed Williams's Ferry, over the Pamunkey 
River, on his way from Winchester to Williamsburg on 
official business. When the ferry-boat touched the 
Southern or New Kent side of the stream the gentleman, 
who was none other than Colonel Washington, was ac- 
costed by a Mr. Chamberlayne, a hospitable person living 
in the neighborhood, who is described as the beau ideal 
of the Virginian of the old regime— "the very soul of 
kindness and hospitality." 

"You must stop at my house for the night, Mr. Wash- 
ington," insisted Mr. Chamberlayne. 

232 



WASHINGTON AS A WOOER 

" It is impossible," answered the Colonel, bowing po- 
litely. " I have important business at Williamsburg." 

"Ah," protested Chamberlayne; "you must dine with 
me at the very least," And the would-be host added, with 
a merry twinkle in his eye, that he would introduce the 
Colonel to a "young and charming widow" who hap- 
pened to be paying a visit to his family. So the Colonel, 
overwhelmed by the insistent kindness of the Virginian, 
accepted the invitation to dine, although he announced 
that he must continue his journey before nightfall. When 
the two reached the Chamberlayne house, Washington 
was presented to its occupants, including Martha Custis, 
the "young and charming widow." 

The afternoon which the Colonel passed with the 
widow has become historic. He forgot sweet Mary 
Philipse, with whom he had tarried so long in much the 
same way that he was now delaying with the pretty 
widow. He made up his mind that Mrs. Custis was 
delightful; while she in turn smiled graciously upon one 
of whose prodigious valor she had heard many flattering 
stories. The sun went down, and the Colonel so far 
forgot his good resolutions to continue his ride as to con- 
sent to spend the night at Mr. Chamberlayne's house. 
"No guest," said the host, who began to see which way 
Cupid was shooting his arrows, "ever leaves my man- 
sion after sunset." This particular guest made no demur. 
Williamsburg could not melt away; the town would still 
be in existence if he arrived there a trifle behind time. 

233 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

The next day, we are told, was far advanced when 
"the enamored soldier was on the road to Williams- 
burg." As soon as he could get away from the Virginian 
capital he hastened back to see the widow, and with 
what results ail the world knows. It soon began to be 
whispered around in New Kent County that Madame 
Custis was to marry the young officer, who was now the 
sole owner of the Mount Vernon estate. More than one 
colonist vowed that George Washington was a "shrewd 
fellow." So the couple were married and " lived happily 
forever after." Washington sighed no more for "Low- 
land Beauties," or for beauties of any other kind, and 
although he never lost his keen relish for a pretty face, 
he made a loyal, chivalrous husband. There is no doubt, 
despite certain sneers, that he had, from the first, a 
warm affection for his wife. It was nothing to his dis- 
credit if the lady chanced to have a comfortable fortune, 
which he was able to manage skilfully and with prudence. 

Mrs. Washington shines out through the vanishing 
twilight of the past as a worthy, matronly woman, who 
proved to be just the wife a man like Washington needed. 
She was a capital housewife and a well-bred hostess. 
Although she had a little temper of her own, and was 
very human, she yet had vast tact and sagacity. A wife 
who talked too much might have ruined the influence of 
the General, while a bluestocking who tried to meddle 
in statecraft would surely have quarreled with him. 
But Martha Washington was energetic without being 

234 



WASHINGTON AS A WOOER 

gossipy, and housewifely without being dull. It is well 
for America, therefore, that the "Pater Patriae" did not 
win a sprightly Fauntleroy or an implacable Mary 
Philipse. "Mrs. Washington appeared to me one of the 
best women in the world," wrote the Marquis de Chas- 
tellux, and no better epitaph than that can be found for 
the loyal wife who helped America by helping her hus- 
band. 

Shortly before passing away, Mrs. Washington de- 
stroyed all but one of her collection of letters written to 
herself by the General. The one that she spared, which 
refers to his appointment as Commander-in-Chief of the 
Revolutionary Army, contains a sincere tribute of affec- 
tion. "You may believe me, my dear Patsy," he says, 
"when I assure you in the most solemn manner, that, so 
far from seeking this appointment, I have used every 
endeavor in my power to avoid it, not only from my un- 
willingness to part from you and the family, but from a 
consciousness of its being a trust too great for my capac- 
ity, and that I should enjoy more real happiness in one 
month with you at home than I have the most distant 
prospect of finding abroad, if my stay were to be seven 
times seven years. ... I shall feel no pain from 
the toil or the danger of the campaign; my unhappiness 
will flow from the uneasiness I know you will feel from 
being left alone. I therefore beg, that you will summon 
your whole fortitude and pass your time as agreeably as 
possible. Nothing will give me so much sincere satis- 

235 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

faction as to hear this, and to hear it from your own 
pen." 

Perhaps Washington was not so anxious to avoid the 
command of the army as he hints in this letter; but of 
his regret at being obliged to leave his wife there can be 
no possible shadow of doubt. The good lady, however, 
saw not a little of her lord and master during the long 
war. She accompanied the General to the lines before 
Boston, and witnessed its siege and evacuation, before 
returning to Mount Vernon. At the close of each cam- 
paign thereafter an aid- de-camp repaired to her home 
to conduct the mistress to her husband's headquarters. 
The arrival of the aid-de-camp at headquarters, " escort- 
ing the plain chariot with the neat postilions in their 
scarlet and white liveries was deemed an epoch in the 
army, and served to diffuse a cheering influence amid 
the gloom which hung over our destinies." Lady 
Washington always remained at the headquarters till 
the opening of the campaign, and often remarked, 
m after life, that it had been her fortune to hear 
the first cannon at the opening, and the last at the 
closing of all the campaigns of the Revolutionary 
War. 

Think of the letters which Mrs. Washington destroyed. 
"What fine reading they would have made! " exclaims 
the modern biographer in tones of regret. Is it always 
"fine reading" to have matrimonial confidences exhib- 
ited for public inspection ? The modern biographer per- 

236 



WASHINGTON AS A WOOER 

haps would not hesitate to publish the secrets of his own 
mother, if they had any commercial value. The vener- 
able mistress of Mount Vernon was wise in her gen- 
eration. 



237 



A QUAKER TRANSFORMED 



XII 
A QUAKER TRANSFORMED 

THE Quaker, or, to use a more technical term, the 
Friend, has great powers of adaptability. Put 
him into a situation, where polish or even ele- 
gance is called for, and he is seldom if ever found want- 
ing. That is because the Quaker has a worldly side as 
well as a spiritual side, and possesses a keen knowledge 
of how to behave under the most trying and the most 
unusual circumstances. 

Let us take, for example, the career of Dolly Madison, 
otherwise Dolly Todd, or Dorothy Payne. This attract- 
ive American, who lived to win the hearts of two hus- 
bands, and to become the "First Lady of the Land," as 
mistress of the White House, was born in the then far- 
away province of North Carolina, in the year 1768. She 
bid fair, at that time, to develop into nothing more 
startling than a country maiden who would know how 
to spin, to make curds and whey, and sew industriously 
at the garments of some yeoman spouse. "In truth," 
says Maud Wilder Goodwin, in her blithesome biography 
of Mistress Madison, "no one could have looked less 
frivolous than this demure schoolgirl with the sober 
gown reaching to the toes of her shoes, the long gloves 

241 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

covering her dimpled elbows, and the linen mask and 
broad-brimmed bonnet hiding her rosy face. Yet an eye 
trained to fortune-telling might perchance have caught a 
glimpse of a glittering chain about the white neck under 
the close-pinned kerchief, and guessed the guilty secret 
of hidden finery which it held, and which gave the lie 
to the profession of a renounced vanity which her garb 
suggested." 

From the first, indeed, Miss Dolly Payne was fond of 
dress — one of those welcome sins from which the best of 
women are by no means exempt — and she showed this 
amiable weakness to her life's end. She was named 
Dorothea in honor of Dorothea Spotswood Dandridge, 
granddaughter of Governor Alexander Spotswood, who 
afterwards became the second wife of the silver-tongued 
Patrick Henry. Dolly Payne's father, John Payne, junior, 
was a gentleman born, of English and Scotch extraction, 
and had married the daughter of an Irishman. Conse- 
quently the little girl had the blood of the three ancient 
kingdoms coursing through her veins, while the Celtic 
strain, with its vivacity, was well accentuated, despite 
her Quaker training and traditions. Her eyes were 
merry, her hair black and curling, her complexion bril- 
liant, and her facile tongue suggested an ancestry "not 
unacquainted with the groves and the magic stone of 
Blarney." 

Dolly was the eldest daughter of a large family living 
in Hanover County, Virginia, whither her father had 

242 



A QUAKER TRANSFORMED 

gone, to superintend his plantation, siiortly after her birth. 
Here she learned the mysterious arts of housewifery, and 
such intellectual accomplishments — not many, it must be 
confessed — as it was the custom to impart to feminine 
minds in those colonial days. In the meantime John 
Payne, her father, found that the Quaker faith was not 
duly appreciated in old Virginia, and he longed passion- 
ately for the more congenial surroundings of Philadel- 
phia; in Pennsylvania a Friend was not looked upon as 
an anomaly in religion. At last he determined to take up 
his habitation on the banks of the peaceful Delaware, and 
he began his preparations for removal by setting at 
liberty all his slaves. To do this was to deprive himself 
of a very substantial portion of his property. But John 
Payne had the conscience of an Abolitionist of later 
years, though, unlike some of the latter, he had a great 
deal to lose by yielding to that conscience. It is one 
thing to demand freedom for slaves when you have none 
of your own, and quite another thing to cry for the same 
freedom when negroes form a goodly part of your 
worldly possessions. 

It was in 1783, after the successful close of the Revo- 
lution, that the Payne family arrived in Philadelphia. 
Miss Dolly was then a sprightly young lady of about the 
same age that Miss Sally Wister was when she penned 
her famous diary for Miss Deborah Norris. Philadelphia 
was then a prosperous town of more than thirty thou- 
sand souls, with the Quaker element much more in 

243 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

prominence than it became in after years. Although 
there was a bit of Old World luxury and a good deal of 
fine dressing among the aristocrats of the town, including 
the Chews, the Willings, the Binghams, the McKeans, 
and the Cadwaladers, broad-brimmed hats and poke- 
bonnets were still in the ascendency. It is not surpris- 
ing, therefore, that John Payne found the place quite to 
his liking, or that he soon became prominent as a " Public 
Friend," or lay preacher. If one will take the trouble, 
when in Philadelphia, to walk to the southwest corner of 
Fifth and Arch Streets he will there see the old Free 
Quaker Meeting House (afterwards used for the Ap- 
prentices' Free Library and now devoted to the prosaic 
purposes of trade) wherein the Paynes worshiped on 
many a First Day after their own impressively simple 
fashion. Who shall assert that during the exhortations 
of her father, or of some equally eloquent preacher, the 
mind of Miss Dolly did not stray from the things of the 
next world to the good times which she hoped to have 
in this one ? For she was already as much of a belle as 
any demure Quaker girl was allowed to be, and many 
were the young Philadelphia swains who gazed, not 
altogether unblushingly, upon her violet eyes and wealth 
of black curls. She was truly a most charming Qua- 
keress, whose religion seemed to be more of an accident 
of birth or the result of training than a matter of con- 
scientious conviction. Indeed, had it not been that many 
Quaker maidens were quite as human and as full of life 

244 



A QUAKER TRANSFORMED 

as their sisters of the Church of England or of other 
faiths, her vivacity and impulsiveness might have been 
regarded as an anomaly. But youth is youth all the 
world over; one cannot make winter out of spring; a 
girlish heart beats as spryly under a sedate waist of drab 
or gray as it does beneath the jeweled bodice of a Court 
beauty. 

Any one who cared to study Dolly Payne's character at 
this formative period must have wondered whether the 
child, who was now developing into womanhood, would 
be content with the quiet life of a Friend, or whether she 
would some day draft for herself a declaration of social 
independence, and plunge headlong into the gay world 
which revolved about her so swiftly, so temptingly. It 
seemed for a time as if she were fated to pursue the even 
tenor of her ways, and settle down, at last, into the 
placid, God-fearing life of a Quaker matron. For, before 
she reached her twenty-second year, there appeared upon 
her domestic horizon the drab-coated figure of a certain 
Mr. John Todd, junior, who sought her hand in solemn, 
ceremonious fashion. After some delay he was as sol- 
emnly and ceremoniously accepted. The delay was oc- 
casioned, as the story goes, by Miss Dolly's announcing 
pertly that she never meant to marry; nor is it likely that 
she saw anything romantic in uniting herself to this, her 
first wooer. Mr. Todd was a Friend, like herself, and a 
young fellow of unimpeachable worth, yet unimpeach- 
able worth does not always prove the best road to a 

245 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

woman's heart. A little more dash, even with a little less 
worth, might have made the suitor far more attractive in 
the eyes of the young lady. However, she relented, in 
due course, and was married to John Todd (1790) with 
as much eclat as the Quaker ceremony would permit. 
This iclat was, of course, not overpowering. For her 
there could be, as an after entertainment, neither dancing, 
nor romping, nor the drinking of innumerable toasts to 
bride and groom. 

It was naturally to be supposed that a match inaugu- 
rated in such a commonplace, unemotional way would 
result in a long, commonplace but tranquil married life 
about which there would be nothing striking, or pictur- 
esque, or tragical. But it is folly to prophesy regarding 
so uncertain a thing as matrimony. The married life of 
the Todds was to have a finale at once pathetic and 
heroic enough to do duty for the ending of a novel. 

It is a day in the summer of 1793, and a mother lies in 
the room of a house on South Fourth Street, near Chest- 
nut, in Philadelphia. With her is a mite of a boy, her 
second born. The mother is Mrs. John Todd. The man 
who bends over her, to look into the plump face of the 
child, is her husband. He is prospering, as a lawyer, be- 
yond his expectations, and all the signs promise a bril- 
liant career. But what words are on the trembling lips 
of some men who are passing on the street outside? 
"Yellow Fever!" "Yellow Fever?" Yes! Several 
Philadelphians have died of the dreaded disease, and the 

246 



A QUAKER TRANSFORMED 

one fearful question now is: " Will it spread ? " And it 
is a question, too, that John Todd has already begun to 
ask himself, even though he has not dared breathe it to 
his wife. 

As the days go on the dreaded thing fastens its grip 
upon the city. Hundreds of citizens are stricken down, 
to die in a few hours like dogs, and a dull fear, to be fol- 
lowed by a ghastly panic, hangs pall-like over the town 
once so serene and healthy. Neighbors fear to look 
upon one another, lest they catch the fever; funerals in- 
crease; bells toll; business is suspended; King Death 
reigns supreme. Soon there is a mad rush to get away 
from the polluted place. Any man who has a wagon, 
or who can beg, borrow or buy one, drives his family 
out into the country, as far away as possible from the 
awful Visitor. John Todd cannot allow his wife and 
children to perish. So he takes them, his wife on a 
litter, to the then sylvan spot known as Gray's Ferry, 
and he himself bravely returns to Philadelphia to do what 
he can for the stricken city. Here he is met by the death 
of his mother and father, who fall victims to the relent- 
less plague. Dolly Todd sends tearful messages to him, 
begging him to join her at Gray's Ferry, and to save his 
own life. He must stay long enough in Philadelphia, he 
says, to help his friends and clients— then, and not until 
then, will he leave the town. 

At last John Todd, having faithfully done his duty to 
his neighbor, returns to Gray's Ferry, but with the seeds 

247 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

of the fever lurking in his system. The brave man 
sickens and dies, after but a few days' illness; Dolly 
Todd, who has been reckless enough to throw herself 
into her husband's arms upon his arrival, also takes the 
fever. For three weeks her life is despaired of; the 
physician shakes his head; he has no hope. Perhaps, in 
her delirium, the poor woman cries out for Death to re- 
lease her, for now her new-born child has followed his 
father across the dark river. 

After a time the plague, satisfied with so ample a har- 
vest, released its clutch upon suffering Philadelphia. 
People began to return to town. Among them came 
Mrs. Todd, who looked, and felt indeed, quite heart- 
broken. It hardly seemed as if she could ever again 
"take notice," as old time gossips were wont to say of 
so many youthful widows. John Todd had bequeathed 
his meagre estate to Dolly, whom he called in his will 
" the dear wife of my bosom, and first and only woman 
upon whom my all and only affections were placed." 
So, with little or no worldly means, there was but one 
thing left for the widow to do. That she did pluckily, 
and thus, unconsciously paved the way for all her future 
splendor. She took her first-born boy, and went to help 
her mother keep a little Philadelphia boarding-house. 
Old Mr. Payne, Dolly's father, had died a ruined man, 
financially speaking, so that the other members of the 
Payne family, who had learned the rules of hospitality in 
open-hearted Virginia, were now obliged to exercise the 

248 



A QUAKER TRANSFORMED 

same hospitality at so much per head. And it must be 
admitted that in the exercise of this virtue the stricken 
Doily aided materially, for she began to "take notice" 
with a suddenness that must have surprised some of her 
friends. Yet it would have required half a hundred tons 
of iron to crush a woman whom Nature had endowed 
with such a perpetual flow of animal spirits. 

Now it chanced that in 1794 there was living under 
Mrs. Payne's roof a gentleman who was later to play a 
prominent and discreditable part in the history of his 
country. This was Aaron Burr, a future Vice-President 
of the United States and the future slayer of the noble 
Alexander Hamilton. At present, however, Colonel 
Burr was a shrewd statesman, who took part in the 
deliberations of Congress, now sitting in Philadelphia, 
and who was distinguished for his charming manners, as 
well as for the silly way in which he was worshiped by 
some emotional females. Dolly Todd, however, was not 
one of those emotional females. Mistress Todd was al- 
ready something of a woman of the world, so it is safe 
to infer that she had a fairly good understanding of the 
character of this slippery patriot. Nor does it appear 
that Burr lost his heart, if he ever had such a piece of 
anatomy, over the attractions of the sparkling widow. 
On the contrary, he was trying to make a match between 
her and a friend of his, and doing it with as much zest 
in the work as if he had been some designing mamma. 

This friend was, of course, James Madison, of Virginia, 

249 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

who had already done much to serve his country, and 
who was destined to do still more by becoming one of 
her Presidents. He was a staid, ungraceful little 
bachelor of over forty, who had experienced one unsuc- 
cessful love affair a few years before, when a Long Is- 
land maiden followed up her first acceptance of his ad- 
dresses by jilting him in the most ignominious way for a 
musically-inclined parson. The parson was a clever 
fellow, for he hung around the young lady whenever she 
played the harpsichord — a bit of gallantry of which the 
solemn Madison would have been quite incapable — and 
wheedled his way so effectively into her heart that she 
soon sent the statesman to the right-about. 

But Time, the great consoler of hapless lovers, gradu- 
ally effaced from James Madison's mind the image of this 
cruel damsel. The consequence was that when he came 
to Philadelphia, and saw from a distance the sweet com- 
plexion and lovely eyes of Dolly Todd, he was seized 
with a sudden desire to be " presented " to the lady. He 
confided his wish to Colonel Burr, who promptly, and, 
no doubt, with a degree of pleasant roguishness, informed 
Mistress Todd that she had made a conquest. Where- 
upon the latter wrote to a friend that " the great little 
Madison has asked to be brought to see me this evening." 
Come he did that very night, accompanied by Colonel 
Burr, for introducer. Before he left the parlor of Mrs. 
Payne's modest boarding-house the great Virginian had 
forgotten the Long Island flirt so completely that she 

250 



A QUAKER TRANSFORMED 

might never have existed. He was undeniably, if per- 
haps awkwardly, in love with blooming Dolly Todd. 
No one was more alive to the fact than the volatile 
widow herself. "The two men who bowed before her 
in the candle-lighted parlor of her mother's house on that 
night were singularly unlike in appearance as in char- 
acter. . . . Burr was full of grace, of charm, of 
vivacity, with mobile, expressive features, and an eye 
potent to sway men against their will, and women to 
their undoing. Madison was slow, unimpassioned, and 
unmagnetic, yet with a twinkle in his mild eye which 
bespoke a dry humor. . . . Burr was a Senator, 
while Madison was in the lower house, having been de- 
feated in the contest for the seat of Senator from Virginia. 
In this case, as in so many others, however, the race was 
not destined to be to the swift, and the man who was to 
be at the head of the nation in the future days was not 
the brilliant, versatile, unscrupulous Burr, but the slow 
and steadfast Madison."' 

It was not long ere Mistress Washington, wife of our 
first President, who then held high social sway in the 
official residence on the south side of Market Street below 
Sixth,' sent for Mistress Todd to enquire if it were surety 
that the widow was engaged to marry Mr. Madison. 
Mistress Todd blushingly acknowledged the soft im- 
peachment, whereat Martha Washington, followed by 

> Dolly Madison, by Maud Wilder Goodwin. 
« A tablet marks the building covering the site of the mansion. 

251 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

the President, was graciously pleased to offer most sincere 
congratulations. " He will make you a good husband," 
said the First Lady of the Land. She spoke as a true 
prophetess. The social world of Philadelphia soon knew 
that Dolly, the one-time wife of the industrious John 
Todd, was to marry James Madison. 

It was arranged, after mature deliberation, that the 
wedding ceremony should take place at Harewood, Vir- 
ginia, the home of Dolly's sister, Mrs. George Steptoe 
Washington. Mr. Madison, accompanied by the future 
bride and her little son, with her child-sister, Anna Payne, 
(who was to act as a sort of infantile chaperon), spent a 
pleasant week in reaching Harewood. Here the middle- 
aged bachelor and the young widow were quietly mar- 
ried on a day in September, of 1794. Madison shone 
resplendent in a gorgeous suit well set off by ruffles of 
Mechlin lace, while the costume of the bride was any- 
thing but Quaker-like. The ceremony was performed 
by a clergyman of the Episcopal Church, and was fol- 
lowed by a merry dance. How shocked Dolly's staid 
father would have been! Thus ended Dolly Payne's 
Quaker life, which had sat but lightly on her from the 
beginning. 

The honeymoon, as had been determined, was to be 
spent at Montpellier, one of Madison's plantations, in 
Orange County, Virginia, and to this lovely portion of 
country the newly married couple started in a substantial 
coach-and-four. Here they passed a few happy weeks; 

252 



A QUAKER TRANSFORMED 

but we soon find them back again in Philadelphia. It 
was a gay life that certain upper-class Philadelphians led 
in those days. It was almost as gay, proportionately, as 
the life of many Philadelphians of to-day, despite the 
enormous increase in wealth and luxury which the years 
have brought. For be it remembered that the Quaker 
City was the temporary capital of the infant nation, and 
therefore attracted to it many gilt-laced foreign diplomats 
and other persons of distinction who appeared quite out 
of harmony with the old-time simplicity of the town. 
They would have appeared strangely out of harmony 
with it, too, had it not been that this old-time simplicity 
was fast vanishing. The Quaker element was slowly 
losing its power and prestige, as it gradually gave way to 
more worldly, or at least more eLl^rate, ideas and man- 
ners. Dancing, as practised at the " Assemblies," was 
now looked upon as an innocent pastime rather than as 
an invention of the Evil One; the picturesque Quaker 
costume was rapidly becoming the exception rather than 
the rule. In short, Philadelphia had acquired a certain 
cosmopolitan air and attractiveness which unfortunately 
it lost, when the national capital was removed to the then 
desert District of Columbia. Into this new society of the 
Quaker City came Monsieur de Talleyrand, the Duke de 
la Rochefoucauld-Liancourt, of the high-sounding title, 
the Spanish Marquis D'Yrujo, and other illustrious 
gentlemen who enjoyed themselves very much in sipping 
the Madeira and eating the provender of their hosts, even 

263 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

though they, in their foreign hearts, may have considered 
the aforesaid hosts a trifle provincial. They were polite 
enough, however, to these old-time Philadelphians, both 
before their faces and behind their backs, and in this they 
form a delightful contrast to some other foreigners who 
have visited this country in more recent times. 

It was into this pleasant Philadelphia society that Dolly 
Madison plunged, after her honeymoon, with the energy 
of a child who is at last let loose in a much-coveted 
playground. She became popular at once, not because 
she had any wonderful brilliancy of conversation, but 
rather because of her great tact, her skill in placing all 
those about her at their ease, her gentle flattery, which 
made her friends feel the more important in her presence, 
and a certain quality which may be set down, for want 
of a better name, as personal magnetism. Her contem- 
poraries never pretended that Dolly Madison was a 
genius or a "woman of mind," but they instinctively 
admired and praised her engaging manner, her tact and 
resourcefulness. These traits account for her remarkable 
social success, and for the beneficial influence which she 
exerted in behalf of her truly devoted husband. Perhaps, 
in her own way. Mistress Madison was as wise as any of 
her friends. She knew her limitations, and was shrewd 
enough to win applause without trying to go beyond 
them, or to make undue pretenses. 

Washington was succeeded in the Presidency by testy, 
honest John Adams; next in the autumn of 1800, the 

254 



A QUAKER TRANSFORMED 

seat of goverrHnent was removed to Washington; the 
following spring witnessed the inauguration of Thomas 
Jefferson as third President of the United States. How 
the heart of Dolly Madison thrilled, to be sure, when the 
bitter contest for the Chief Magistracy between Aaron 
Burr and Jefferson at last resulted in the installation of the 
latter; for Madison became Secretary of State, while 
Dolly was not only the wife of the secretary but, further- 
more, a lady who was oftentimes called upon to play 
the principal role in the entertainments at the new White 
House. Jefferson was a widower, his daughters were not 
living in Washington, and he sadly needed some one to do 
the honors for him. 

Although he was a man of breeding and a thorough 
gentleman, he ever affected a democratic bearing — "Jef- 
fersonian simplicity " it was called — that seemed at times 
strained to the verge of absurdity. Political expediency 
was at the bottom of it all. 

We hear amusing stories about some of this "sim- 
plicity," in one of which Mistress Madison was an im- 
portant, albeit unwilling factor. There was in Washing- 
ton, as Minister from the Court of Saint James, a certain 
Anthony Merry, a pompous, punctilious Englishman 
who was a great stickler about the breeding of others, 
but who had little of that important quality himself. 
This diplomat had already taken offense at what he chose 
to consider the insulting way in which the President had 
received him at the White House. Mr. Jefferson's shoes, 

255 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

as it appears, were not buckled with enough care to suit 
Minister Merry's fastidious taste, and it was complained 
that the clothes of the President were arranged with 
"studied negligence " — in short, that the whole scene was 
gotten up for the purpose of slighting Great Britain in the 
person of her august representative. Accordingly Mr, 
Merry insisted that the President was all sorts of things 
except a gentleman, and the tongues of the people of 
Washington wagged like bell-clappers. 

The ill-feeling, however, did not stop here. Mrs. 
Merry was soon embroiled in the matter. By invitation 
of Mr. Jefferson she accompanied her husband to the 
White House one afternoon, to dine with all the other 
foreign ministers and their wives. When the guests were 
assembled in one of the parlors, and the servants had 
announced dinner, Mr. Jefferson rose and looked around 
him. "Of course," thought Mrs. Merry, who considered 
herself the most distinguished woman present because 
her husband represented Great Britain, " the President 
will take me into the dining-room." The President, 
however, did nothing of the kind. Men twisted their 
necks; ladies stared and then exchanged meaning 
glances with one another. Mrs. Merry looked like a 
thunder-cloud; Mr. Merry was furious, and not polite 
enough to hide the fact. The President had offered his 
arm to Mrs. Madison, and was escorting her out to the 
dining-room, despite the signs and motions which she 
was making; for the latter was trying to induce Mr. 

256 



A QUAKER TRANSFORMED 

Jefferson to give his arm to Mrs. Merry. He was, how- 
ever, purposely bUnd to the hint; Mrs. Merry had to 
yield the honor to the charming Dolly. Perhaps the 
President might have been a little more gracious to these 
foreigners had the Merrys not been so extremely and 
annoyingly anxious that every possible attention should 
be shown to them. 

During all her social success in Washington, Mrs. 
Madison went on strengthening the hands of her hus- 
band, jpolitically speaking, by making hundreds of friends 
for herself, and, therefore, for Madison. Through it all 
she still retained that lack of ostentation which character- 
ized her early social life. Being a lady born, she bore 
her honors more simply than did certain other women 
who afterwards found themselves, temporarily, very 
great personages at the infant capital. One anecdote 
pleasantly serves to show how, although no longer a 
Friend, she still preserved a saving bit of Quaker humility. 
On a visit to Philadelphia she chanced to see an old lady, 
a shopkeeper, whom she had known when she was 
the girl, Dolly Payne. The wife of the Secretary of 
State insisted upon going up-stairs, to a room just above 
the shop, to drink a cup of tea with the old lady, and 
there the two sat for many a delightful minute, as they 
talked so volubly about old times in Philadelphia that 
there was no chance for any one else to get in a single 
word. 

But greater honors awaited this unassuming lady. In 

257 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

March of 1809, James Madison became President of the 
United States, in succession to Jefferson. Mrs. Madison 
was now the centre of all the gayety of Washington. 
We get a glimpse of her first reception at the White 
House, and see there the tall, ungraceful figure of Jeffer- 
son, who has determined to lend such ^clat as an ex- 
President can to this entertainment. He glides here, 
there, everywhere, with his expressive face shining 
with the spirit of good humor. The women crowd 
around him, to see the last of the hero who is about to 
vanish from public life. "You see, they will follow 
you ! " laughs a companion. "That is as it should be," 
says the ex-President gaily, " since I am too old to follow 
them. I remember when Dr. Franklin's friends were 
taking leave of him in France, the ladies almost 
smothered him with embraces. On his introducing me 
to them as his successor, I told them that among the rest 
of his privileges I wished he would transfer this one to 
me; but he answered: 'No, no; you are too young a 
man!'" 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Madison welcomes her guests with 
the cordiality that has made her famous. But she keeps 
one eye on her husband, who looks careworn, as if 
loaded down by the sense of his coming responsibilities. 
For, however prosaic may have been the affection of this 
bright little woman for James Madison when she first 
married him, her love for him now is nothing short of 
middle-aged romance. Much as she cares for the world 

258 



A QUAKER TRANSFORMED 



of dinners and bright clothes, her fondness for them is 
as nothing compared with her love for the new Presi- 
dent. 

During the second term bf Madison we have a far 
different and quite a melodramatic glimpse of the " First 
Lady of the Land." It is in the summer of 1814, when 
the war between England and the United States is in 
progress, and the British are threatening the very capital 
itself. The American force which must defend the city 
is ridiculously small. The excitement in Washington is 
intense, it is said that the British officers have sworn 
that they will dine at the White House and make their 
bows in the drawing-room of Mistress Madison. What 
is to be done ? There is panic in the air. Money, valu- 
ables, important documents are hurried in wagons across 
the Potomac to Virginia; the more timid Washing- 
tonians make hasty preparations to leave the place, if it 
comes to the worst, and confusion reigns supreme. 

President Madison is at Bladensburg, a short distance 
from Washington, where the Americans are trying, un- 
successfully, to stem the tide of British invasion. While 
there he spends most of his time in writing notes to his 
wife, whom he has left in the White House, and seems 
more exercised for her safety than for the safety of all 
the rest of the Capital's inhabitants. "He enquired 
anxiously," writes Mrs. Madison to her sister, under date 
of August 23d, " whether 1 had courage and firmness to 
remain in the Presidential house till his return, and on 

250 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

my assurance that I had no fear but for him and the suc- 
cess of our army, he left me, beseeching me to take care 
of myself and of the Cabinet papers, public and private, 1 
have since received two dispatches from him, written 
with a pencil. The last is alarming, because he desires I 
should be ready at a moment's warning to enter my car- 
riage and leave the city; that the enemy seemed stronger 
than had been reported, and that it might happen that 
they would reach the city with intention to destroy 
it. ... 1 am accordingly ready. . . . French 
John [a servant], with his usual activity and resolution, 
offers to spike the cannon at the gate, and to lay a train 
of powder which would blow up the British should they 
enter the house. To the last proposition I positively 
object, without being able, however, to make him 
understand why all advantages in war may not be 
taken." 

The next day the loyal-hearted lady thus writes: 
"Will you believe it, my sister, we have had a battle or 
skirmish near Bladensburg, and I am still here within 
sound of the cannon! Mr. Madison comes not. May 
God protect him! Two messengers, covered with dust, 
come to bid me fly; but I wait for him. . . . Our 
kind friend, Mr. Carroll, has come to hasten my depar- 
ture, and is in a very bad humor with me because I in- 
sist on waiting until the large picture of General Wash- 
ington is secured, and it requires to be unscrewed from 

the wall. This process was found too tedious for these 

S60 



A QUAKER TRANSFORMED 



perilous moments; I have ordered the frame to be broken 
and the canvas taken out. It is done, and the precious 
portrait is placed in the hands of two gentlemen of New 
York for safe-keeping.^ And now, dear sister, I must 
leave this house, or the retreating army will make me a 
prisoner in it, by filling up the road I am directed to take. 
When I shall again write to you, or where I shall be to- 
morrow, 1 cannot tell." 

On this very morning the steward of the White House 
has planned a dinner for three o'clock the same afternoon. 
The wine has been placed in the coolers, for members of 
the Cabinet are expected to grace the Presidential board. 
Great men must eat and drink sometimes, in spite of 
panics. It is just about dinner-time when a negro who 
has accompanied Madison to Bladensburg gallops madly 
up to the White House, as he waves his hat and cries 
out: "Clear out! Clear out! General Armstrong [Secre- 
tary of War] has ordered a retreat! " 

At once all is confusion. Mrs. Madison orders her car- 
riage, and as she passes through the dining-room, grasps 
what she can crowd into her reticule. Then, when the 
chariot is brought up to the door, she quickly jumps in, 
accompanied by a maid and one other companion, and is 
rapidly driven over to the Georgetown Heights. "Mrs. 
Madison," relates a contemporary, "slept that night at 
Mrs. Love's, two or three miles over the river. After 

1 The portrait of Washington was safely hidden in a house near 
Georgetown. 

261 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

leaving that place, she called in at a house and went up- 
stairs. The lady of the house, learning who she was, 
became furious, and went to the stairs and screamed out: 
'Mrs. Madison, if that's you, come down, and go out! 

Your husband has got mine out fighting, and d you, 

you shan't stay in my house. So get out! ' " 

Thus Dolly Madison learned, for once, how adversity 
can change the warmth of one's reception. A week 
before the swearing virago would have groveled at the 
feet of the President's wife. But Mrs. Madison, taking 
the lesson with both philosophy and good breeding, left 
the house at once and lodged elsewhere. 

It was not long after her hasty exit from the White 
House that the enemy's troops entered Washington. 
They behaved in a way that must always leave a blot on 
the record of British arms. When the Capital had been 
set on fire, some of the officers proceeded to the White 
House, where, after doing full justice to the dinner 
awaiting the absent Cabinet, they stole a vast quantity of 
wine from the cellars, and then lighted a bonfire of fur- 
niture in one of the parlors. But there is no need to re- 
peat further the story of vandalism. War is not always 
conducted upon chivalrous lines. 

The wanderings of the Madisons during the compara- 
tively few hours that the British held carnival in Wash- 
ington have become a part of American history. How 
Mrs. Madison had literally to beg for shelter in an inn; 
how her husband, looking more like a fugutive from 

262 



A QUAKER TRANSFORMED 



justice than the President of these great United States, 
turned up at this same inn; how she forgot all her 
troubles in having him near her; how Madison at length 
fled out into the raging storm, because the British were 
supposed to be hunting him as hounds might hunt a 
criminal; how he spent the night in a miserable hut in 
the forest;— all these things we recall as we review the 
history of the War of 1812. It must be confessed that 
the worthy President does not make a heroic figure amid 
this excitement. The statesman cannot always play the 
bold commander. 

In a short time Washington was evacuated by the 
British. The Madisons hurried back to the White House, 
to find it in charred ruins. Ere long the tide of victory 
turned in favor of the Americans. Then came peace, 
with the ringing of church bells, the booming of cannon, 
and much brilliancy of illumination. A great many per- 
sons on both sides of the ocean were glad that the war 
was over. Thus life went on until Madison finished his 
second term as President, and with his wife retired to the 
peaceful shades of Montpellier. Here, for many a pleas- 
ant year, they led the placid life of a high-bred Virginia 
couple. Here Madison studied, read and thought of the 
stirring events of the past; here Mrs. Madison tended her 
wonderful garden and dispensed a hospitality at once 
lavish and gracious. When the two used to talk over 
the fall of Aaron Burr— his killing of Alexander Hamilton, 
and his treason against his own country— they must have 

263 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

had at least one grateful thought for the one-time friend 
who had made them known to each other in the parlor 
of Mrs. Payne's boarding-house. Over the front door of 
the Montpellier mansion might have been inscribed: 
"Love grows with the years." 

One might have supposed, indeed, that the Madisons 
were youthful lovers, to judge from the letters they 
wrote one to the other during the occasional trips which 
the husband took to Charlottesville. One letter reads 
as though old Mrs. Madison — it is hard to think of Dolly 
as old, is it not ? — had but just been wedded. It runs : 

"Monday, Nine O'clock. 

"My Beloved, — I trust in God that you are well again, 
as your letters assure me you are. How bitterly 1 regret 
not going with you! Yours of Friday midday did not 
reach me till last evening. I felt so full of fear that you 
might relapse that I hastened to pack a few cloaths and 
give orders for the carriage to be ready and the post 
waited for. This morning, happily the messenger has 
returned with your letter of yesterday, which revives my 
heart and leads me to hope you will be up at home on 
Wednesday night with your own affectionate nurse. If 
business should detain you longer — or you should feel 
unwell again, let me come for you. ... I hope you 
received my last of Thursday containing letters and 
papers. My mind is so anxiously occupied about you 
that I cannot write. May angels guard thee, my dear 
best friend! D ." 

It was in the summer of 1836 that Madison, who had 
become a helpless, rheumatic invalid, died with a harm- 
less jest upon his lips. A servant had brought him his 

264 



A QUAKER TRANSFORMED 



breakfast, but he could not swallow it. "What is the 
matter, Uncle James ? " asked a niece who was with 
him. " Nothing more, my dear, than a change of mind," 
he answered. Then his head dropped upon his chest, 
and he ceased to breathe "as quietly as the snuff of a 
candle goes out." 

No need to tell of the sorrow which came into the 
widow's life. It was to her as if the sun had ceased to 
shine. But she was a brave woman, and the world could 
never quite lose its charm for one endowed with such a 
healthy, normal mind. 

During the last eleven or twelve years of Mrs. Madi- 
son's life we see her living with a niece once more in 
Washington, not far from the White House, and as if by 
right — becoming once more a distinct queen of society ! 
She is now a woman of over seventy; but, though she 
may dress in rather an antique costume, she attends a 
ball as gayly as if she were a girl of eighteen. "What 
a difference twenty years makes in society," she says 
once, as she peers at the Washingtonians who are dan- 
cing around her. " Here are young men and women not 
born when 1 left the capital, whose names are familiar, 
but whose faces are unknown to me." And all the 
while the youngest-spirited person in the room is Mis- 
tress Dolly Madison! Indeed, she never cares to look 
upon herself as an old woman; years do not count where 
the heart is kept young. Yet with all her cheerfulness 
she has had troubles which would have killed any. less 

265 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

volatile creature; for that worthless child of hers, Payne 
Todd, spendthrift and gambler, has forced her to sell 
Montpellier, and is always making demands on her 
purse that almost reduce her to the ranks of a pauper. 

Through it all the dear old lady holds levees, to which 
all the great people flock, much as if she were still the 
wife of the President. We see her at one of these en- 
tertainments, erect and dignified, with the impressiveness 
of a true Virginia grande dame of olden time. She is 
dressed in purple velvet, with plain straight skirt amply 
gathered to a tight waist, cut low and filled in with soft 
tulle. Her throat, still white and unwrinkled, is encircled 
by a lace cravatte, fastened with an amethyst pin. On 
her head is a wonderful turban, made of some silky ma- 
terial; over her shoulders is thrown a little lace shawl or 
cape. There are two bunches of very black curls on 
either side of the smooth brow, which seems almost like 
that of a young girl. The violet-blue eyes are full of 
sparkle, and mirror laughter; the mouth is smiling; the 
complexion is as soft and pretty as might be the com- 
plexion of a girl. Such is the venerable Mistress Madi- 
son, enjoying this world until the last, yet never forget- 
ting her husband, who has gone to that other world of 
which we know so little. She is a true philosopher, if 
ever woman was, enjoying all that her life offers; she 
can take pleasure in a levee, crowded with American no- 
tabilities and foreign dignitaries, and she can take pleas- 
ure, too, in the memory of James Madison. Even that 

266 



A QUAKER TRANSFORMED 

worthless son, who will soon descend to a dishonored, 
unmourned grave, cannot crush the marvelous spirit. 

With all her love of existence Dolly Madison has 
within her a certain spiritual quality which tells her that 
the things of this earth are not, after all, so very impor- 
tant. Perhaps that quality has been inherited from the 
Society of Friends. She becomes more interested in re- 
ligion as old age increases: at last the Episcopalian 
Bishop of Maryland baptizes and then confirms her, ac- 
cording to the beautiful ritual of his church. "There is 
nothing in this world really worth caring for," she says 
gently, towards the end. 

It is a day in July, of 1849. Mrs. Madison is ill, but lis- 
tening to a chapter from the New Testament. As she lies 
there, drinking in the words whose spirit seems so far 
away from all the worldliness of the past, she falls into 
a peaceful sleep. It is her last sleep on this troublous 
planet. In two more days she is dead. When the people 
of Washington hear of her passing away, they can do 
nothing but speak her praise. She who had kind thoughts 
for many has, in return, many a kind thought bestowed 
upon her. She is given a public funeral, as befits the 
wife of a patriot, and to it come the President, members 
of the Cabinet, the Diplomatic Corps, Senators, Repre- 
sentatives, officers of the Army and Navy, and many 
more, of high and low degree. On her grave in a local 
cemetery flowers are strewn as emblems of that bloom 
of life which had never left her. A few years later 

267 



ROMANCES OF EARLY AMERICA 

the body of Dolly Madison is placed by the side of her 
husband at Montpellier. 

It is fitting that the wife should lie so near the well- 
loved husband. The courtship between the two may 
have lacked picturesqueness, but their married life proved 
to be a true romance which only deepened in intensity 
as the twilight of old age crept gently over them. Would 
that all other romances might end as serenely ! 



268 



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